


An Uncommon Proposal

by Mangaka_chan



Series: Princess Tutu 1920's AU [2]
Category: Princess Tutu
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Comedy, Detective Noir, Drama, F/M, Gen, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2020-06-02 15:36:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 77,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19444402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mangaka_chan/pseuds/Mangaka_chan
Summary: Fakir and Duck have returned to their respective lives in 1920’s New York City after the adventure of a life time. But when a new murder case and an ominous warning from Autor conjure ghosts of the past, Fakir must make a number of important decisions, including what to do about his feelings for his next-door neighbor. For Duck, the quiet routine she had returned to is interrupted by a garrulous toddler, whose arrival heralds the beginning of a slow but unstoppable change in the shop girl’s world.Choices must be made, the results of which will either push Fakir and Duck closer together or pull them apart.A sequel to “An Uncommon Witness”.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After three years, I’m back! Honestly, when I finished “An Uncommon Witness” I was not seriously considering a sequel. I had trouble bringing AUW to completion, and with only a few nebulous concepts floating around in my head for a sequel, the thought of doing it all over again was just too stressful. But while working on my Sailor Moon fan comic, ideas for this sequel kept bubbling up, so I decided to let my Muse chew on it while I continued with the comic. Luckily the “wait and see” approach worked, and within a few months of finishing my Sailor Moon fan comic, I had drafted a complete outline for the AUW sequel. With this in hand, I felt much more confident that I would have a cohesive plotline and can avoid some of the pitfalls I had with AUW. And speaking of AUW, eagle-eyed readers may notice a few changes have been made to that story since its completion in 2016. Part of this was to update the text after I did some additional research on certain topics. The other reason for the edits is to better align the sequel with its prequel so that everything is consistent. 
> 
> With that being said, this sequel will be a different beast from its predecessor in terms of scope and focus. Fakir and Duck will still be the central characters, but I am sad to say that, except for passing mentions in conversation, Rue and Mytho will not be featured in this story. As far as my Muse is concerned, Rue and Mytho’s story is done; they’ve literally sailed into the sunset, and there is nothing more to say about them. For Fakir and Duck on the other hand, my Muse has plenty to say. This sequel will address one of the main disappointments(?) readers expressed about the ending to AUW, and that is the lack of romantic resolution to their relationship (to be fair, I had head-canons for Fakir and Duck’s relationship beyond AUW when I was still writing that story, so this just gives me an excuse to finally put those ideas down on paper). You can expect a lot more Fakiru moments, as well as more rom-com elements, with some nods to the second season of the original anime. The mystery and crime element of the original setup will remain, as readers will discover by the end of this first chapter, but will take more of a backseat to their relationship development.
> 
> Now, without further ado, read on and enjoy! ;)

Countless raindrops battered the pavement, replacing the usual din of car horns and pedestrian chatter, as a torrential downpour drenched the city of New York in the heat of a summer night. A single street lamp illuminated a small empty lot, gleaming on its wet pavement.

Beneath the lonely lamplight, a group of huddled figures shuffled about in the gloom, the beams of their flashlights flitting to-and-fro. A lucky few stood in the open with umbrellas unfurled, while the remaining unfortunate souls braved the rain's full brunt.

The majority talked and gestured under the meager cover of a nearby tree. No matter where they stood, be it beneath an umbrella or the tree, everyone’s attention was centered on the single motionless body that lay before them, soaked and lifeless on the crumbling brick pavement.

Police Sergeant Fakir Romeiras was one of the unfortunate figures standing in the pouring rain. Stepping away from his examination of the body, Fakir tilted his head back to have one last look at the crime scene.

This small action inadvertently sent a rivulet of water from the rim of his hat down into his coat, and soaked the back of his shirt. Fakir cringed at the sensation of wet clothes against his skin. It was made worse by the summer humidity and heat, which stubbornly refused to dissipate despite the rain or the time of night. Fakir grumbled mentally at his lack of weather foresight _._

_Four responding units and only three umbrellas between a dozen men. This makes no sense!_

Making a mental note to recommend stocking umbrellas in every police car at the next departmental meeting, it was not so much the discomfort of being wet that irritated the detective. Rather, the lack of rain cover made it difficult to take notes and collect evidence. The rain was slowly but steadily eroding the crime scene, which was far more infuriating for Fakir than standing in the rain with sodden shoes and drenched trouser legs.

Turning to one of the figures lucky enough to possess an umbrella, Fakir shouted impatiently, “Alex, anything?”

A young man with short brunette hair hurried over and handed Fakir a small paper bag, its edges darkened by water. “Two bullets, Sarge. Jerry’s got the photos of where they were found. There might be more embedded in the victim, but we probably won’t know ‘til the coroner gets to have a look. I expect the wagon will be here soon to pick up the body.”

“Good. Make sure you hold onto to those,” Fakir said, handing the bag back to Alex after taking a quick look inside. “Charon mentioned that Colonel Goddard now has a working prototype of his comparison microscope. If we ever recover a gun, we’ll be able to give the colonel something to compare these to.”*

As Alex dutifully tucked the paper bag into a pocket, Fakir looked back at the body that was still being examined by the police team and said, “Based on the level of rigor mortis and lividity the victim has been deceased for no more than four hours. It’s now 9:50pm. My guess is the victim was killed around 7 to 6pm, at the earliest.”

The lack of an identifier in his sentences reminded Fakir of his next question. Wiping away the rain on his face, Fakir turned back to Alex, “Speaking of that, do we have a name for the man yet?”

The young officer nodded, and after fumbling with his umbrella, managed to pull his notebook out of a breast pocket. “We do. Actually, one of the local patrol officers who responded to the call recognized him,” Alex said, pointing his chin at the group of uniformed officers huddling under the nearby tree. “Let’s see… his name is Marco Corioli. 42 years-old. Plasterer by trade. Lives a few blocks from here, in unit 3-2 of 493 Tiber Street.”

The young man paused to flip a page, and continued, “Also, according to the boys, he has a bit of a record. No felonies, though he had been picked up for bootlegging a couple times in the last two years, and before that he was mostly involved in some petty thefts and handling of stolen goods – that kind of thing. One thing worth mentioning, though,” Alex added, pausing as he cast a quick glance at Fakir, “is that the boys say Marco occasionally used to do business for the Corvos.”

At this, Fakir’s eyes shot up sharply. Alex seemed to anticipate Fakir’s reaction and gave his senior officer an uneasy look before looking back down at his notes. “Er, again nothing big. Just the rum-running I mentioned, that’s all,” he concluded weakly.

Fakir didn’t respond. Instead, his lips drew into a scowl.

It had been less a year since Domenico Corvo was found dead inside a burnt-out garage in South Chicago. Many of the senior Corvo gang members who traveled there with him either died in the gun fight with the Chicago gangs or were swiftly picked up by the local police. As a result, the Corvo organization had effectively collapsed overnight.

However, that did not account for the small-time crooks and thugs who worked for the Corvos, people whom Don Corvo had no personal interest in, and for the most part, no personal contact with. These soldiers and minions were left to seek other means of employment—and in some cases, protection—for the Corvos had not been without their own enemies in the city of New York.

Looking at the dead man lying face down on the pavement, which was a sign that he had been killed while running away from his assailant, Fakir wondered if Marco Corioli’s demise had anything to do with his connections to that nefarious organization, or if he was robbed of his life by some other ill means.

“Sarge?”

The sound of his partner’s voice snapped Fakir out of his thoughts, and he turned back to the young office, who was holding the umbrella out to him. “Take the umbrella, Sarge. I’m done taking notes for now.”

Fakir pushed the umbrella back towards his junior and shrugged. “Don’t worry about me. It’s too late for that anyway,” he sighed under his breath, feeling the damp shirt clinging to his back. “We’ll leave the boys to finish up. Now that we have the victim’s name, we ought to notify the next of kin. Do you know how to get to Tiber Street?”

Alex nodded mutely.

“Good. You drive, then." In so saying, Fakir turned towards a patrol car.

But before he stepped away, Fakir looked back at his unmoving partner, and saw that the young detective’s lips were drawn thin.

“Have you done a death notification before?” the dark-haired detective inquired, to which Alex frowned and shook his head.

“I suppose this will have to be your first, then,’ Fakir mused quietly as he led Alex to their vehicle. “This is one of the worst parts of this job, but it’s also one of the most important.” Inside the car, with the windows and doors closed, the drumming of the rain was reduced to a dull drone of pitter-patter.

Alex climbed into the driver’s seat next to Fakir, and as the car’s engine stirred to life, he turned to the more seasoned detective and asked hesitantly, “So…what _do_ we tell the family, Sarge? Everything? Parts of what we know?”

For a long moment, Fakir did not move or make a sound. Alex, his fingers tapping nervously on the steering wheel, waited for Fakir’s response.

What he could not see was the flash of memories behind Fakir’s eyes, a vision of a heavily bandaged little boy lying in a hospital bed. With his only surviving family members standing quietly to one side, a police officer gently took the boy’s hand and spoke the words that boy would never forget.

When Fakir spoke, his voice was somber, but resolute. “We tell them the truth.”

* * *

By the time Fakir and Alex had parked in front of the tenement building on 493 Tiber Street, the rain had tapered off into a drizzle. The two men made their way up the narrow staircases, using their flashlights to illuminate the steps in the poorly lit hallways.

Once they reached the third floor, Fakir’s flashlight beam landed on a simple wooden door, with the number “2” painted in black on the top of the wooden panel.

After knocking twice in succession with no one answering, Fakir and Alex looked at each other, mutually wondering if anyone was home. Then Fakir had an idea.

“You speak Italian, right? Try calling out in Italian instead.”

“Er, sure,” Alex said with a small nod. Clearing his throat, he knocked again and shouted, “Ciao? Qualcuno è a casa? Questa è la polizia.”

After a long moment, the door creaked open and a middle-aged woman peeked out warily from behind the door jam at the two men. “Come posso aiutarti, signori?”

Alex glanced at Fakir for assurance, and after the sergeant nodded, Alex replied quietly, “Riguarda tuo marito, Marco.”

A brief expression of surprise flashed across the woman’s face before a look of resignation took its place, as though she had been through similar situations before. Pushing the door open, they were led into a stuffy little room, lit only by the light of a kerosene lamp.

It was evident at a glance that this single room doubled as the family’s dining, living, and kitchen area, with pots and pans piled somewhat haphazardly next to the blackened coal stove. Sheets of laundered diapers and clothing, which would normally be drying outside, were hanging over a jury-rigged garment line due to the rain, leaving barely enough space for the occupants to move about without running into something or another.

Within this cramped space, three children—two older teenage girls and one middle-school age boy—sat around a wooden table piled high with bundles of half-finished coats and dress shirts. Both girls were in the middle of sewing buttons onto the shirts when the officers entered the room, causing the needles in their hands to pause.

Their brother, who was also the youngest of the three, stood up from his chair and complained loudly to his mother in English, “Ma, why did you let the coppers in?”

The mother quickly shushed her son with a raised finger. “Non così forte! I bambini stanno dormendo.” Lowering her voice, she glanced at the officers and whispered something to the boy and motioned toward the officers.

“Why do I have to go talk to ‘em? One of them speaks Italian. Just talk to him yourself!” The boy protested, but was met with a quick smack on his backside and a stern look from his mother. Grudgingly, the boy took a step forward.

By now, the boy’s sisters had put their work down, and four sets of distrustful and apprehensive eyes rested on the two policemen. Tilting up his chin to look tough, the dark-haired boy asked, “What did my old man get into this time?”

Alex swallowed thickly, his nervous eyes darting to Fakir. In contrast to that of the junior detective, Fakir’s expression was calm. He said to the boy in a quiet voice, “What is your name?”

The boy rolled his eyes in annoyance. “Edmondo Corioli. But everyone calls me Eddie.”

“And may I ask what are your mother and sisters’ names?”

“Ma’s name is Sofia. My eldest sister’s name is Elisa, and my second older sister’s name is Angelica, but they go by Eli and Angie.” Eddie finished with a shrug.

Fakir nodded in acknowledgment. Looking up briefly at the women of the household, he said to the boy, “Please ask your mother and sisters to have a seat, Eddie.”

Eddie opened his mouth as though he was going to object, then thought better of it and repeated Fakir’s request to his mother and sisters in Italian.

Once everyone, save for the boy and the two officers, had occupied the available chairs in the room, Fakir took a deep breath. “My name is Sergeant Fakir Romeiras of the New York City Police Department,” he said in a measured and solemn voice. “Two hours ago, at 8:45pm, an officer discovered an unconscious male subject in the empty lot behind Volci Street. Upon closer inspection, it was determined the subject had been killed due to multiple gunshot wounds.”

Fakir paused briefly and watched as Eddie’s eyes grew wide. The detective’s brows wrinkled momentarily, but he continued, and to the family softly said, “Uniformed officers on the scene identified the victim as Marco Corioli. I am sorry, Mrs. Corioli, Eddie, Eli, and Angie, but Marco is gone.”

The girls raised their hands to their mouth to muffle their cries, evidence that despite their silence they had understood Fakir’s every word. Seeing her daughters’ reaction, a confused and agitated Sofia shook her son’s shoulder. “Edmondo, cosa è successo? Cosa ha detto la polizia?”

Eddie said nothing for a moment, then barely audibly, “Ma… Pops, he’s… lui è morto.”

Angie inhaled sharply and turned away from the room while her older sister embraced her as the two girls began to quietly weep.

Eddie’s mother did not move at first. Finally, she let go of her son’s shoulder and her eyes drifting to the floor. When her eyes looked up again they were quivering with disbelief.

“È vero? Come? Non ci credo! Non è possibile… non… non è possibile…” Repeating that same phrase to herself, Sofia buried her face in her hands and cried.

Alex watched the family with a mix of sympathy and self-consciousness, not sure if he should speak up and comfort them or allow them to express their grief.

Looking to Fakir for guidance, he saw that his senior’s face was stoic and unreadable. Even so, Fakir never looked away from the young boy standing in front of him, a boy who had not shed a single tear upon hearing of his father's death, but whose balled-up fists and clenched jaw spoke volumes of his emotional state.

“Who killed him?” Eddie asked simply, his eyes locking with Fakir’s.

Fakir shook his head. “We don’t know yet. But we believe you can help us find out who did. Do you, or anyone else in your family, know if your father had any enemies? Anyone who would want to harm him?”

Here, Eli spoke for the first time. Wiping her tear stained cheeks with the sleeve of her worn linen frock, the eldest of the Corioli children said in accented English, “No, no one! Papà gets into trouble some times, but nothing big or very serious.”

“Papà likes horse racing and often go to the race track,” Angie added, sniffling as she held tightly onto her sister. “Papà rarely gets work, so Mamma, Eli and I finish clothes to earn some money.* But last month Papà, without telling us, took the money we had saved and lost it all on horse races. Mamma was furious with him because we won’t have enough money for rent next month. He said he would borrow money from some friends, but did not say anything else to us.”

“I see.” Fakir turned to Alex, who seem to wake from his earlier stupor, and said, “Alex, make a note of that.”

To the girls, Fakir asked, “Do you know which of your father’s friends he might’ve approached for money?”

Angie shook her head as her sister rose and knelt down next to their mother to comfort her. “We don’t ask about Papà’s business. He gets angry when people pry. Even Mamma doesn’t ask much.”

“What about his activities today? Do you know when he left the house?

The girls again shook their heads, but Eddie spoke up. “I saw him leave today. It was around 6pm, when Ma was making supper. The babies—my two younger sisters, Rose and Lucia—were throwing a fit, so Eli and Angie were in the backroom, taking care of them. Someone knocked on the door and the old man went to open it right away. He usually only does that if someone he knows is coming to visit. They talked for a little bit at the door, then the two of them left together.” Here, Eddie pursed his lips. “That is the last I ever saw him.”

“Do you know who the man is or what he looks like?” Alex asked, his pen flying across the pages of his notebook.

But Eddie shook his head. “It was too dark for me to see his face. I just know he’s real tall. Almost a foot taller than Pops. After Pops answered the door, I heard him asking Pops if he was ready to go.”

“They didn’t mention where they were going?”

Again, another shake of the head from Eddie. After some additional questions about Marco Corioli’s background, employment, and living habits, the two officers had finally exhausted their inquiries. However, they still had precious little in the way of answers.

By now, Sofia’s cries had diminished to a series of low, shuddering breaths, and from the dark shadows under the children’s eyes, it was clear they were all physically and emotionally exhausted.

Realizing there was no other information to glean from them tonight, Fakir frowned. He had hoped Marco’s family would be able to shed more light on how he ended up in that empty lot, but it seemed that—like many other men involved with organized crime—Marco was very protective of what he considered his “business”.

 _The identity of the person Eddie saw Marco leave with will be the key._ Fakir’s eyes narrowed. _The challenge of course will be how to figure that out..._

Shifting his attention back to the grieving family, Fakir reached out and placed his hand on Eddie’s shoulder. “We will do our utmost to find the person or persons who did this to your father.”

He reached into a pocket and produced a card. “Here is my card. If you or your family have any questions, or hear anything of interest, let me know.”

Fakir wanted to say more, but seeing the closed off expression on Eddie’s face, the detective knew his words were falling on deaf ears. Sighing softly, he placed the card on the table, then he and Alex turned towards the door.

Before taking his leave, Fakir turned back one last time, and in a voice that sounded inadequately sincere even to his own ears, said, “Again, I am sorry for your loss. Take care.”

Outside the rain had stopped and the night air was warm and muggy. Alex, once back in the driver seat, said guiltily to Fakir, “Sorry I wasn’t much help back there, Sarge…” Looking self-consciously at the steering wheel, the young officer admitted, “I just didn’t know what to say to them. But you handled it really well back there.”

To his surprise, Fakir only gave a shake of his head. Mystified, Alex look at him questioningly, to which Fakir explained, “I wanted to give them answers, Alex. I don’t count that as a well-handled notification.”

“But we don’t even know who killed Marco. How could we give them answers when we…?” Alex began, but Fakir stopped him with a hand on Alex's arm.

“You’ll understand someday. Let’s get back to the precinct. We still have a lot of work ahead of us.”

* * *

By the time Fakir made it back to his desk at the 53rd precinct, it was almost midnight. With nary a break, Fakir had a quick change of clothes and went straight back to work, checking the report for the items and evidence recovered at the scene, as well as typing up a transcript of what he and Alex had learned from the Corioli family.

Alex had wanted to press on and help with the paperwork, but after nearly 16 hours on the clock, fatigue was catching up with him, and the junior officer could not stop yawning. Upon Fakir’s urging, Alex finally conceded to go home for the night after Fakir promised him he would be leaving soon as well.

Now alone, with just the quiet hum of his electric desk fan for company, the dark-haired detective did not bother to conceal his frustration with the case at hand. Fakir tapped his cigarette over a metal ashtray full of used stubs. Taking a long puff, he exhaled and let out the deep sigh of exasperation and helplessness that had plagued him all night.

The crime scene report had found little physical evidence, owing to either the rain or the lack of visibility. While an attempt would be made in the morning to recanvas the area, it was difficult to say if anything new would be found even then. Fakir slapped the report down on his desk, running his hand into his still damp hair.

Try as he might to focus on the investigation, Fakir’s thoughts kept drifting back to Eddie, the boy who had glimpsed the man likely responsible for his father’s death. Fakir could not help but be reminded of himself as a child, back when he tried desperately, yet in vain, to recall the faces of the two men who had killed his parents before his eyes. Even after two decades, the memory of the powerlessness he’d felt as a child still sent pangs of anguish and anger through his chest.

 _But those men are dead now,_ Fakir reminded himself sternly as he attempted to redirect his mind back to the present. Fate saw to it that retribution was brought against those responsible for his parents’ death.

As desperately as Fakir had wanted proper justice to be carried out, he had come to accept that there was nothing more to be done. The only thing he could do now was to walk, slowly but steadily, out of the trauma that had haunted him for most of his life.

But what about Eddie? Fakir took another puff on his cigarette. Would that boy ever have the closure of knowing his father’s killer was brought to justice? Or would this become another cold case festering like an open wound, causing more pain and suffering as the years went by?

With his head resting in one hand, Fakir’s tired eyes drifted toward the reports on his desk. As fervently as Fakir wanted to believe he would one day bring those responsible for Marco Corioli’s murder to justice, there were no good leads for him to follow. If only he could find out who had gone to see Marco that evening, then it would throw the case wide open…

Suddenly, the telephone on Fakir’s desk buzzed to life, startling the detective from his daze. Wondering who on earth would call him at this godforsaken hour, Fakir quickly rubbed out the nearly spent cigarette and picked up the receiver.

“Sergeant Romeiras, Mr. Autor Brahms is on the line for you,” said the sleepy voice of the nightshift switchboard operator, and added, “This the third time he’s called in tonight.”

Fakir’s brows furrowed. The only reason he can foresee for Autor to be this persistent was if the journalist wanted something… and wanted it badly. _Great, what does he want now?_ Fakir groaned internally.

Leaning tiredly into his chair, Fakir pinched the bridge of his nose said to the operator, “Put him through.”

With the Corioli case still on his mind, Fakir decided to cut to the chase of whatever this was about. When the line cracked back to life, he said tersely, “What do you want, Autor? I’ve told you to stop calling me at the precinct. If you want to pester me, then call the line in my apartment. I had it installed for a reason!”

Autor, though, was not to be outdone, so he replied in an equally indignant tone, “I highly doubt the police force would installed a phone line at your home just for me to call you with, Fakir. And I _did_ call your home number just now—twice, in fact—but no one answered! Knowing you, you would more likely be at work anyway. But even with this number it took me three attempts before you actually answered!”

“That’s because I’m _working_ , Autor!” Fakir said through clinched teeth. “I have better things to do than sit at my desk and wait for unsolicited calls from newshawks all day! What do you need from me so badly that you can’t wait until morning or send a telegram?”

From the other end, Autor blustered, “That’s very presumptuous of you! In fact, I _don’t_ need anything from you!”

Fakir’s brow cocked up. “Then why on earth do you bother wasting your time and money trying to reach me at 1am?” The detective retorted.

Autor sighed, and in a more composed but no less aggravated tone, responded, “Because I need to warn you about something, you dolt. And it’s not just you, but your neighbor as well.”

At those words, Fakir leaned forward sharply, pressing the earpiece flat against his head, his earlier concern about the Coriolli case momentarily forgotten. “What? What do you mean?”

Clearing his throat, Autor continued, “Before you get too jumpy, know that it’s still possible what I am about to tell you may turn out to be of no consequence in the end. Nevertheless, I thought the sooner you knew, the better.

“This afternoon, I overheard an interesting bit of gossip at the _World_. One of the boys in the bureau, Ricky, was telling another boy here about his recent visit to a taxi dance hall.* Seems like a girl he fancied told him she knows someone who’s looking to rub out the copper and witness reported in the Corvo exposés. Initially I thought it was just talk, but then your name came up, Fakir.”

Here Autor paused. “You’ve read those exposés, Fakir, and you know neither you nor Duck’s name were ever mentioned in those articles.”

Fakir’s eyes narrowed. He knew Autor was right. Instead of any one individual, the New York City Police Department as a whole had been credited with the investigation and dismantling of the Corvo organization.

For someone to know he was involved would mean whoever had made those threats know more than what the papers have printed, and may have even been present in the warehouse in Chicago, where Fakir had been recognized before all hell broke loose. The fact that Duck’s involvement, though not mentioned specifically by her name, was also brought up made Fakir’s heart begin to race.

“Can you tell me exactly what the taxi dancer said, in as much detail as you can remember?”

Autor paused to collect his thoughts, then answered, “It was something to the effect of, ‘I know a former Corvo boy who’s itching to get some payback for what happened to his boss. He’s out to bump off that Fakir detective fellow and the witness who set the boss up.’ Something along those lines.

“Keep in mind though, Fakir, this is third-hand information. My guess is Ricky was trying to sweet-talk this girl, but she was not having it. She probably said all of this to get him off her back, which I think did the trick, because he made no mention of going back to see her again. However, it is concerning that this taxi dancer, whom I am almost certain has no existing connection to you or Duck, is able to specifically identify your role in the Corvo affair.

“I’ll try to ask around to see if I can dig up the name of the taxi dance hall. Unfortunately, Ricky will be out of the office on an assignment for a few weeks. But if all else fails, I’ll press him for details when he returns. If I find out anything more, I will let you know.”

“Than—I mean, that will be good,” Fakir said briskly, catching himself before he allowed himself to thank the journalist. As much as Fakir appreciated the warning from Autor, his pride and his personal annoyance with the reporter held him back from expressing outright gratitude.

Perhaps it was due to the late hours, but Autor appeared to be oblivious of Fakir’s change in wording, and so continued, “I doubt the taxi dancer or the supposed Corvo man knows who the witness actually is. Duck’s name wasn’t mentioned after all, and it’s quite the memorable name otherwise. Nonetheless, it might not be a bad idea to keep a closer eye on her and her surroundings for the time being. Are you still walking her home after work?”

“I… I, um, no, not recently,” Fakir cleared his throat awkwardly and looked away from his desk for no particular reason.

The truth was, he wanted to—but crime rates, like the temperature, soared during the summer, so most days he was home by the time Duck had already gone to bed. Though, Fakir would rather be dead before he admitted that to anyone, least of all to Autor.

Fakir’s hesitation appeared to be enough of an answer for the journalist, who, rather sardonically, quipped, “Let me guess: you still haven’t told her anything, have you?”

“T-Told her about what? I-I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Fakir proclaimed defensively, his face beginning to feel hot. Not for the last time that night, Fakir was glad he was alone in the office.

Autor sighed heavily, and with the tone of someone throwing up his hands in exasperation, said, “As much as it amuses me how you turn into a stammering idiot any time her name is mentioned in conversation, it becomes tiresome after a while, Fakir. For someone so impetuous and brash, you become timid like a mouse when it comes to any sort of acknowledgment of your feelings for her.”

Hearing that, Fakir’s cheeks were now completely flushed with embarrassment. “What I do with my personal life is none of your damn business, Autor!” he yelled far more loudly than he meant to, his voice echoing in the empty floor of the precinct.

Luckily for him, Autor was not interested in pursuing the topic and scoffed, “Hmph! As much as I would prefer for you to sort out your own personal affairs, it is—as you said—none of my business.”

“Good,” Fakir replied tersely. “If there’s nothing else, then goodnight!” He slammed the earpiece back onto the stand. Huffing, he leaned back into his chair, arms crossed petulantly across his chest.

Fakir willed himself to focus on the work he had at hand before Autor called, but even as the heat in his cheeks ebbed away and his breathing grew steady again, Fakir could not stop thinking about the information Autor had just told him.

It was possible the taxi dancer knew a journalist or police officer who was familiar with Fakir’s connection to the Corvo case, and had told the dancer about him. It was also possible that the taxi dancer had made the connection herself. After all, although Autor’s piece did not mention Fakir by name, the dramatic kidnapping and assault on him and Autor by unidentified criminals a few months back had been plastered all over the news. It wasn’t inconceivable that someone made the connection between their kidnapping and the fall of the Corvo clan.

 _If that’s the case, this might be just a false alarm in the end,_ Fakir reasoned as the clock on the wall ticked towards 2am. _But, if one were to assume a taxi dancer could make that connection, then who is to say that that a former Corvo member couldn’t also make the same connection?_

Fakir frowned. _But why would a mobster tell a taxi dancer of his plans? Was it something the dancer overheard, or is she involved in the plot as well? If she were, it would be very foolish for this girl to be chatting about their plan to others. That makes it more likely that this was all a story cooked up to put off this Ricky fellow, as Autor also posited.  
_

_Still, why such an elaborate story? Did she just read Autor’s article and put two-and-two together, or is there something to this after all?_

At this point Fakir uncrossed his arms and rubbed his face with his hands. “Damn it, this is getting nowhere!” he groaned into his palms.

Quite simply, not enough information existed for him to draw a reasonable conclusion. The best thing he could do was to wait for Autor to give him more information, and in the meantime, keep his eyes and ears open. He stood up and turned off his desk lamp.

Doffing his hat and picking up his still-damp coat, a rush of warm evening air greeted Fakir when he stepped outside the precinct, in which the tart scent of the recent downpour still lingered. By now, there was barely a soul on the street, and save for the occasional dog bark and distant engine noises the night was quiet.

In this strangely peaceful hour, Fakir began making his way home on foot, as the trams had long stopped running for the night and would not resume again for yet some hours more.

Fatigue was catching up with Fakir as well, and he found it difficult to keep his eyes open as he navigated the dark streets. From around a corner, a truck rumbled slowly toward him. As it approached, Fakir tried to muster his concentration and followed its movements guardedly, until it drove past him.

It was only after it disappeared around the corner a block away that Fakir relaxed, while he scowled at his own paranoia.

Continuing on the same route he had been using for almost a year, Fakir walked past the Kotin Pointe Shoe Shop. The store was dark and shuttered for the night, of course. Still, Fakir could not help but pause briefly, if only to catch a mental vision of the vivacious red-haired girl who worked there, before moving on.

 _When was the last time I talked to Duck?_ Fakir couldn’t help silently asking that question to himself.

Fakir’s feet guided him back to the building he shared with the shop girl. _Has it been a week? Two weeks? Was it the time she waved when she came back with the mail?_

Though he was too mortified to ever admit it to anyone, it always brightened his day a little when Duck was around. Whether it was to gently tease her, or just talk about inane things such as the weather or the new movie she saw with her friends, her smile and upbeat attitude never failed to rub off on him and lighten his mood.

Though he knew it was selfish and irresponsible of him to feel this way, given the potential gravity of the threat, a part of Fakir was glad Autor had given him an excuse to spend a little more time with Duck.

Standing outside their apartment building, Fakir looked up and spotted Duck’s window. It was dark inside and the curtains were drawn, as was to be expected at this time of night. Although Fakir knew he would not see her tonight, the knowledge that she was safe and warm inside her home reassured him, even as Autor's news remained in the back of his mind.

Fakir entered the building, his footsteps clunking on the creaky wooden stairs. As he walked up to the floor he shared with Duck, Fakir recalled a conversation he, Duck, and Charon had in the captain’s office several months earlier.

Duck and himself had just returned from Chicago back then, bedraggled and tired from their train ride, but there was an air of eager anticipation in Duck’s footsteps as she disembarked from the passenger car. She had never felt more relieved to return home after being kidnapped into the most unforgettable journey of her life.

After welcoming them and checking on Duck's wellbeing, Charon had given them a briefing on the status of the Corvo case. Since Domenico Corvo was now deceased and Mytho officially MIA, the police captain explained to Duck that unless Mytho was found and apprehended, there was very little chance she would ever have to testify in court.

“However, I must warn you, Miss Stannus," Charon said with creased brows, "that your likeness was revealed to a great number of Corvo members. We suspect most of those who survived the shootout are currently in custody. But while you were brought before those men for a very short amount of time, there remains the small possibility that one of them might have slipped through the cracks, and will eventually recognize you if you choose to continue living here in New York.”

Holding Duck’s anxious gaze, the captain said solemnly, “Knowing that, are you certain you do not wish to take up the Marshall’s offer and relocate elsewhere?”

Duck chewed her bottom lip for a moment, before answering, “Fakir talked to me about the risks on our trip back. And… the truth is, I still really want to come home to New York. Everyone I know—everything I know—is here in the Bronx, Captain. It's risky, but like you said, it's a small risk, right? Also,” Duck added, glancing at Fakir for reassurance, “I live next to Fakir, and he’ll look out for me.”

“You are certain?” the captain asked once again quietly.

Duck answered with a firm nod. “Yes.”

Duck and Fakir stood up as Charon walked around his desk and shook hands with the young woman. “Very well then,” he said with a supportive smile. “I will call the Marshalls and let them know of your final decision. In the meantime, I will have someone arrange a hotel for you until your belongings can be moved and returned to you.”

Charon then turned to Fakir. “Fakir, there is something I wish to speak to you privately about. Do you have some time?”

Fakir and Duck glanced at each other before Fakir looked back at Charon. “Certainly,” he answered.

Wondering what the captain wanted to see him about, Fakir watched with masked unease as a police matron came and escorted Duck away.

Returning to his office, Charon closed the door behind them. After retaking his seat, the captain said, “Commissioner Enright came to speak with me yesterday.* Firstly, he informed me that the deputy commissioner who transferred you out of Homicide did so without his approval, and has consequently been suspended. In addition, that individual is now under investigation for bribery and conspiracy.”

Hearing this, Fakir huffed. “About time! I knew from the moment I got the transfer letter that the Corvos probably had their hands in the man’s pockets.”

“I said as much to Commissioner Enright myself. The aftermath of the Corvo’s downfall will have significant consequences for the city government, and I would not be surprised if more cases of corruption are unearthed in the coming months,” Charon said, frowning at his hand on top of his desk. “But beyond that, there was something else he wanted to discuss with me. He told me that the police commissioner in Rochester, New York, is a friend of his, and if you are willing,” the captain’s eyes flitted up to Fakir, “he could work out a transfer for you.”

Fakir, startled by the offer, was struck silent for a moment. But just before he opened his mouth to respond, Charon held up a hand and explained, “Let me finish, Fakir. Commissioner Enright made a good point during our discussion. Given your role in the Corvo case, and the fact that the Corvos knew who you were and already made an attempt on your life, it is not inconceivable you would be a prime target for reprisals in the future. That is why the commissioner is offering you a transfer to Rochester. He assured me he could work something out with his counterpart there. In the end, though, the decision is yours to make, Fakir.”

As much as the prideful side of Fakir wanted to brush off the commissioner’s concerns, after everything that had happened in the past few months, he could see and understand the reasoning behind the commissioner’s gesture. After all, he knew only too well the level of violence the Corvos were capable of, and now had multiple sets of scars to show for it.

But things had changed dramatically in the last few weeks. He had seen with his own eyes the swift collapse of the Corvo organization. Duck was getting her life back, and a small, selfish part of Fakir looked forward to the thought of them continuing to live side-by-side, without the shadow of the Corvos looming over them.

“I understand Commissioner Enright’s concerns...” Fakir began thoughtfully, “but, given what we now know about the state of the Corvo organization, I think the risk of reprisal is quite low. The Corvos were very much a top-down organization, with Domenico Corvo—and to an extent, Mytho—making all of the executive decisions. With both their leaders gone, what's left of the organization is now fractured and in disarray.

“More importantly, most of the capos, or anyone with real influence in the mob, were killed or arrested that day in Chicago. If there were any capos or high-ranking soldiers that slipped through the cracks, their primary concern right now would be to lay low and avoid the attentions of law enforcement and rival gangs. Over time, I think most—if not all—of the surviving Corvo soldiers and capos would be absorbed by other groups. By then, their allegiances would have shifted, and the Corvo organization would be nothing but a memory to them.”

This thorough analysis had Charon nodding in agreement. “Very good, Fakir. To be honest, I felt the same way, but to hear it from you as well puts me at ease,” the captain said, smiling broadly. He reached his hand across the table. “As captain of this precinct, I am delighted and proud to have a dedicated officer like you back with us, Sergeant Fakir Romeiras. Welcome home.”

Fakir leaned forward, and with a rare warm smile on his face, reached out and shook the captain’s hand firmly. “Thank you, sir. It is a pleasure to be back.”

Once Fakir had unlocked his apartment and shut the door behind him, he tossed his jacket onto the back of a chair, not bothering to turn on the lights. Pulling open the bedroom window, Fakir plopped down onto his bed, too exhausted to change clothes or even washing up. A warm summer breeze drifted into the stuffy apartment and stirred the curtains, making dim shadows dance across the ceiling.

Though his body begged for sleep, the cloying humidity and Fakir’s own thoughts kept him from fully drifting off. Instead, he allowed his half-lidded eyes to wander up to the ceiling where the shadows from the curtains continued to dance.

In that moment within Charon’s office, Fakir had felt so sure of his assessment, and Charon’s agreement seemed to enforce that it was the correct assertion to make. But now Fakir wondered if he was wrong, that he had been foolhardy to assume life would return to normal once Don Corvo was dead.

Rolling his head to the side, Fakir’s gaze drifted to the far wall of his bedroom, which formed the partition that at once divided and connected his apartment to Duck’s.

Regardless of his justification, Fakir knew he wanted to stay by Duck’s side for as long as possible. No matter what happened, he would do everything in his power to protect her, without question. However, what if even that wasn’t enough? What if, by staying with her, he had put her in danger again instead?

Fakir covered his face with his hand. On this matter, the detective was certain: he would never, ever forgive himself for that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Colonel Calvin Hooker Goddard was one of the founding fathers of modern forensic ballistics and invented the comparison microscope in 1925, the year this story is set in. His invention allowed the user to compare two bullets side-by-side and determine, based on the marks left on the bullets, whether they were fired from the same weapon. One of the most famous cases he worked on was the 1929 Chicago St. Valentine’s Day massacre, in which seven North Side Gang associates were gunned down in a plot masterminded by the mobster Al Capone. 
> 
> *Marco Corioli is named after the historical figure that served as the inspiration for the “Coriolan Overture” by Ludwig van Beethoven. The overture is based on the tragic story of the 5th century BC Roman general Gaius Marcius Coriolanus, who, in addition to the overture, is also the main character in Shakespeare’s eponymous play. In the play “Coriolanus”, the general was murdered in a conspiracy organized by his enemy, Tullus Aufidius. The location of Coriolanus’ murder is in the city of Volci, in present day central Italy. “Coriolan Overture” also happens to be one of a number of musical pieces associated with Fakir in the anime canon. Another piece associated with Fakir is “Egmont Overture”, also composed by Beethoven. “Egmont Overture” was written for the play “Egmont” by the famous German writer Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, and chronicles the tragic but heroic story of the 16th century Flemish statesman called Lamoral, Count of Egmont. “Egmont Overture” is alluded to in this story in the name of Marco’s son, Edmondo. 
> 
> *While everyone is familiar with the homework we were given as students, in the 19th and early 20th century, “home work” was also the paid, piecemeal work that women and children (both boys and girls) did in their own homes to supplement the family’s income. Often these would be articles of clothing outsourced from factories that needed to be finished by having buttons and other trimmings sewn onto them, but could also include other cheap, mass-produced commodities, such as paper flowers. Most home workers in that era were recent immigrants from Europe, as the job required no English language skills and could be done by people with little to no formal education or training. However, this type of work was effectively no different from that of a factory sweatshop. The women and children were severely underpaid, and worked long hours in cramped, ill-lit conditions common in tenement apartments of the time. Sanitation and child labor were major concerns. New York City passed a law in the early 20th century prohibiting children under 14 from working in factories, and required houses performing home work to be licensed and inspected for cleanliness. Even so, authorities could not stop children from spending their entire after-school hours working at home to help the family make ends meet. 
> 
> *Dance halls, which provided a dance floor and often offered live musical performances, were very popular in the first half of the 20th century. Taxi dance halls are a subset of dance halls in which young female dancers called taxi dancers would dance with a patron in exchange for a ticket, with each ticket being worth a commission set forth by the dance hall operator. Taxi dance halls first appeared in San Francisco during the gold rush of the mid-19th century, but soon spread across the rest of the country, and by 1931 there were over 100 taxi dance halls in New York City alone. What attracted many male patrons to taxi dance halls was that they were generally open to all ages, ethnicities, and social classes, and every patron could find a willing female partner to dance with, irrespective of their background or appearance. Taxi dance halls were romanticized in film, novels, and songs, but I can only imagine the number of unwanted advances and harassment incidents the dancers must have had to deal with.
> 
> *Richard Edward Enright was the NYPD’s Police Commissioner from 1918 to 1925. He was the first police officer to be appointed to the position of Police Commissioner (the job is more commonly filled by civilians). During his time as a police lieutenant, he was very well liked and highly regarded by his fellow police officers for his advocacy of law enforcement personnel and their working conditions. Knowing this, I felt that he would be someone who would take an interest in the safety and welfare of a regular police detective like Fakir, even though the two of them had never met. His tenure as police commissioner was unfortunately marred by numerous corruption and graft scandals within the department, and he faced a lot of resistance when he tried to root out corrupt and inefficient officers. He resigned out of frustration from the post of police commissioner on December 30th, 1925. 
> 
> Italian translation provided by Google Translate.
> 
> Once again, many thanks to my friend Tomoyo Ichijouji for editing and proofreading!


	2. Chapter 2

Walking under the shade of sycamore trees, Duck made her way to the Kotin Pointe Shoe Shop. Her long braid swayed to and fro from underneath her summer straw hat in rhythm with her footsteps. When the young woman's path brought her past a small travel agency, however, she halted, the pendulum of her braid slowing to a stop.

“Oh, they’ve put posters up!” The blue-eyed shop girl beamed eagerly, peeking inside the agency's windows. The office had yet to open for the day, but nonetheless she perused the advertisements pasted behind the glass panes.

For the past few weeks, Duck had watched as the old dry-goods store she passed by on her way to work was refurbished and repainted in preparation for its new tenant. While this was hardly the first travel agency Duck had ever seen, they had until now operated only in the trendier parts of the city, far from her daily routine.

This office being the first in her immediate neighborhood, Duck could scarcely wait to find out what sort of exotic and faraway places might be advertised once the agency had finally opened. Now, at long last, she would finally be able to quench her curiosity.

“ _Lake of Como. Italy’s Loveliest Lake_ ” 

“ _New Mexico and Arizona Rockies. Land of History and Mystery_ ” 

“ _French Riviera. Comite des Fetes_ ”

“ _California: America’s Vacation Land_ ”

“ _Niagara Falls. Where the Great Lakes Leap to the Sea_ ”

Duck’s eyes lingered on the last poster. The famous waterfall was rendered in a sumptuous oil painting, with plumes of crystalline mist spraying a colorful rainbow across the scene. Compared to the other more modern geometric poster images, this impressionist rendering of Niagara Falls stood out to Duck with its dreamy yet lifelike quality.*

“It's so pretty! How wonderful it would be to see that for myself someday,” Duck murmured to herself, her eyes drifting off toward the other posters as well.

_I’ve never been to any of these beautiful places in the pictures. Being able to visit just one of them would be so lovely…_

Then, Duck's eyes aligned on an ad for a cross-country train from New York to the West Coast.

“Summer Special: Travel in luxury from New York City to San Francisco for only $65, plus $10 for Pullman sleeper berth.”

The thought of paying a tenth of her yearly salary for a single train ride jolted Duck back to reality. There were far more practical things Duck needed her paycheck for, and a fanciful expedition was not one of them.

Sighing loudly, Duck turned away and continued on to the Kotin Pointe Shoe Shop. The familiar bell on the door jingled as she entered, and Duck breathed in the perfume scents of sweet orange, lavender and clove that kept the warm summer air inside the store fresh and light.

“Good morning!” Duck called out, spotting her friends and co-workers, Lillie and Pique, sitting behind the shop counter.

“Morning,” the girls answered as the violet-haired Pique exhaled a bored yawn.

Duck smiled as she put her purse away and joined them behind the counter. “Is Mr. Kotin in yet?”

Lillie peered up from the gossip magazine in her lap and shook her head. “Nope. I’m willing to bet he’s going to be in late today again!” 

“Mr. Kotin's been doing that a lot these days. It’s so unusual for him,” Duck mused, settling into her usual chair. “He’d always been so punctual before…” the freckled shop girl said, wrinkling her nose, “...though, part of it was that I would always get here late because of my alarm clock.” 

The mention of Duck’s tardiness drew forth a fit of giggles from the other girls. “The two of you really do seem to have switched places. But that’s not a bad thing if it means he’s not here to make us sweep and dust,” Pique said, stretching languidly in her seat. “It’s just too warm for us to do anything!”

Duck glanced outside, where the muggy weather seemed to smother any urge to exert oneself. “I wonder why Mr. Kotin is late, though. I hope he’s okay.”

Pique grinned. “I’m sure he’s fine, and I’ll bet the reason he’s late is because of Miss Anna Belykh. He’s probably depressed from pining over her, and just can’t muster the energy to get up in the morning right now.”

Duck furrowed her brow, failing to put a face to that name. “I think I’ve heard her mentioned before, but I’ve never met her. What does she look like?”

“Oh, she has the most beautifully Charleston bob, Duck!” Lillie exclaimed, setting her magazine aside and launching into a vivid recollection of the woman. “A tall, blonde figure in a light blue silken dress walked into the store that day, and instantly Mr. Kotin was smitten! He attended to her slavishly, waiting on her every word and gesture as she leisurely perused his humble little shop, his eyes never leaving her for even a moment. And when she finally departed, with a smile on her face accompanied by a brief word of thanks, you could practically see his poor little heart leap straight out of his chest!” 

Seeing the dubious expression on Duck’s face, Pique chimed in, “Oh, he was pos-i-tive-ly _smitten_ , all right! She came back in again a week later, right before you came back, Duck. And it was obvious how taken he was by her. It was like watching a love-struck schoolboy in the presence of his biggest crush!”

Here, Pique looked at Duck devilishly and poked her in the ribs. “And speaking of infatuated schoolboys, what happened to your secret admirer, Duck? We haven’t seen him around recently, have we, Lillie?”

The sudden shift in topic—to herself, no less—caught Duck completely off guard, and she made a choking sound in response. “Gah! Um…”

Duck stammered unintelligibly as two pairs of sniggering, Cheshire-Cat-eyes waited for her response, and the red-haired girl felt her cheeks burn despite herself. It had been months since her friends last teased her, and Duck was beginning to think they had forgotten about her interactions with Fakir—especially since, as Pique had just pointed out, he hadn’t come around in recent months. But, it seemed that had been too much to hope for.

“F-Fakir’s been really busy lately!” Duck turned away and busied herself with straightening up a pile of already neatly organized ledgers. “Apparently, summer is a really busy time for the police, b-because, um, people’s tempers flare more easily in the hot weather, and so that means more cases for him!”

“Ah, and you know what else flares in the heat of summer?” Lillie whispered coquettishly before the blonde wrapped her arms around Duck and Pique, drawing the girls into a tight embrace. “Passion! Sweeping romances that come with the summer waves of heat! Duck, Pique—now is the time for you to reignite your passionate rivalry over the mysterious and handsome Sheik of Arabia!”

With a laugh, Pique disentangled herself from Lillie’s arms. “Come now, Lillie! I think it’s quite obvious our Sheik of Arabia has already found his Lady Diana.”* Pique winked at Duck. “With the way he gets on with Duck, could it be any more obvious whom he really fancies?”

“N-no! That’s not how it is, Pique! Really, it’s—uhg…” Duck stammered, wondering how she could possibly explain her relationship with Fakir to her friends without revealing the fact that she had been drawn into a case involving what had been the biggest organized crime family in the city.

Luckily for her, the bell on the shop door rang just then, and the forlorn figure of Mr. Kotin slouched into the shop.

“Mr. Kotin!” Duck exclaimed, surprised to see him arrive punctually instead of being late as they had all anticipated.

But Mr. Kotin seemed to not have heard the surprise in Duck’s voice, removing his hat and muttering with a heavy sigh, “...Good morning, Miss Duck.”

Hearing the dejection in his voice, the girls glanced at one another, after which Duck asked, “Are you okay, Mr. Kotin? You seem really down.”

“Is it because of Miss Belykh? Are you going to go see her tonight?” Pique blurted out, and this startled Mr. Kotin so much that he nearly dropped his hat. He jerked his head around to face his three employees.

“Miss Pique! How did you know?!” he demanded of them, his finely groomed mustache twitching in astonishment.

Pique scratched her cheek sheepishly. “Uh, actually, I overheard you on the phone with her earlier this week, and you were pacing back and forth in the shop for the rest of the day.” 

Mr. Kotin sighed heavily. He finished hanging up his hat at the door and walked to the front counter where the girls were gathered.

With his hand over his heart, he began, “It is as you say, Miss Pique, for the thought of Miss Belykh rest heavily in my heart. You see, ladies,” he paused with great gravity as the girls watched him with rapt attention, “I believe, after a long search and many tribulations…I have found my better half!”

As choir music seemed to swell in the background, Mr. Kotin raised a hand dramatically in the air, like a chivalrous knight reaching for the hand of his beloved. “Though she walks amongst us, she is a princess, my queen and lady, and her beauty superhuman, for her hair shines golden, her forehead fair as the Elysian fields, her eyebrows as rainbows, her eyes like suns, her cheeks of roses red, her lips of coral hue, her teeth like pearls…”*

While Mr. Kotin was absorbed in his theatrical monologue, Duck looked askance at her friends and whispered, “What ‘tribulations’ are he talking about?”

Pique cupped her hand over her mouth and replied softly, “I think he meant the lady he went to lunch with who ended up eating most of his food after finishing her own. I think her name was Miss Kidd?” 

“Oh! I remember there was also a lady who was so shy she barely moved, and didn’t say a single word to him during their entire date,” Lillie divulged.

“I see…” Duck nodded slowly. But after thinking about this for a second, Duck’s brows drew together and she looked back at her friends and murmured, “But how do you know all this? Mr. Kotin never mentioned any of this to us before!” 

Lillie and Pique gave Duck sideways glances, and Pique quipped, “Mr. Kotin never mentioned these things _directly_ , but sometimes when he goes on about love and marriage, if you read between the lines…”

“…you can figure out a fair bit about his personal life,” Lillie finished.

Duck made a dubious face at her friends’ claims, while Mr. Kotin concluded his speech with a flourishing proclamation: “I am willing to travel to the ends of the Earth, pluck a star from the heavens in her name! But alas, I have yet to convey my feelings to her. While I believe she thinks well of me, I fear my feelings for her may be…unrequited.” 

Here, Mr. Kotin’s dramatic façade faltered, and he wringed his hands together anxiously. “I have requested that we meet at the St. Regis this evening. Whatever she may think of me, I shall discover the truth of her heart tonight.” 

“So, in other words, you’re going to have dinner with her tonight and are planning to confess to her?” Lillie summed up.

Mr. Kotin opened his mouth, as if to expound on this, but after a moment, settling for a simple response of “yes." Then he heaved another deep sigh.

The three girls looked at each other. As amusing as it was to watch Mr. Kotin spout romantic soliloquies, it was clear that the outcome of this evening’s meeting could potentially break his heart. And so, with complete sincerity, Pique said to him, “I wish you the best, Mr. Kotin. Just know that whatever her answer might be, you are and will remain a great man!”

“Yes! Charm her with your cultured, eloquent manners, and show her that you’re the cat’s whiskers!” Lillie enthused.

Seeing her friend’s energetic encouragements, Duck added quietly, “I haven’t met Miss Belyky, but she sounds like a lovely lady. I wish you the best of luck, Mr. Kotin!”

Mr. Kotin sniffed and inhaled a deep breath. “Thank you, dear ladies…your well wishes have helped to steel my resolve, as I march onto the battlefield of love! But first,” Mr. Kotin extended an arm dramatically towards the custodial cabinet, “the floors need to be swept and the cabinets dusted! Do not let my date with destiny distract you from your duties!”

The three girls exhaled a collective, audible groan.

_Guess Mr. Kotin didn’t forget after all_ , Duck lamented silently as she retrieved one of the washcloths and began the familiar task of wiping down counters and shelves.

As a preoccupied silence filled the shop while the daily chores were getting done, the topic of love lingered in Duck’s mind as she remembered what Pique said earlier.

_…Could it be any more obvious whom he fancies?_

The idea that she would be “fancied” by anyone felt unbelievable to Duck. Though she had read more than her share of romance novels and seen dozens of romantic dramas in the theater—in no small part thanks to her friends—realistically, Duck never pictured herself being the protagonist in one of these stories. She wasn’t royalty, nor did she possess otherworldly beauty or power; she was just an average girl, living a simple, normal life. 

The only thing extraordinary about her had been her involvement in the events of several months past. Duck's witness of a mob murder had caused her to cross paths with Fakir, Rue, and Mytho, culminating with the detective traveling halfway across the country to find her. The fact he would do that for someone so plain and unassuming raised a question Duck had not given much thought to before: what could have motivated Fakir to embark on such a dangerous journey—for her, of all people?

Certainly, Duck had been flabbergasted when she had first seen Fakir at that warehouse in Chicago. In the ensuing chaos, however, his reason for being there had been the last thing on her mind. Instead, she only had heartfelt gratitude toward him for helping her slip away from the mob's clutches, and for saving her from drowning in the freezing Calumet River.

In the aftermath of that tumultuous day, Duck had been entirely preoccupied with finding out what had happened to Mytho and Rue, and the exhausting process of returning to her home in New York. There had been few opportunities for deep introspection, so that question had been relegated to the far corners of her mind…at least, until today. 

The corners of Duck’s lips tightened as she dunked the wash cloth she clutched into a pail of water. _Well, he’s a cop. He would’ve done that for anyone…_ Duck thought, repeating to herself the conclusion she had come to shortly after the events in Chicago.

Wringing out the wash rag, Duck continued to busy herself even as a flush of pink tinged her cheeks. Though Fakir hadn’t told her all the details, she knew he had flown all the way to Chicago by private plane, which was an incredibly daring—as well as incredibly dangerous—thing to do. What if the plane had run out of fuel? What if the pilot had gotten lost? What if they had run into foul weather on the way there?

To have taken all those risks just to find one person, an ordinary shop girl…could a sense of duty alone really have propelled someone that far? Or, could something else have motivated him to attempt such an extraordinary feat?

By the time Duck had finished cleaning, Mr. Kotin had already retreated into his office. Without any customers in the shop to attend to, Pique and Lillie went back to reading and quietly giggling over their magazines.

Sitting at the counter, Duck found a newspaper lying on the table from two days ago Mr. Kotin had left behind. Out of curiosity, she picked it up and skimmed the slightly out-of-date headlines. Save for the announcement of a new elephant calf at the Bronx Zoo, however, none of the other stories caught her attention.

As the clock quietly ticked into the afternoon, Duck found herself gazing outside the shop window, watching the crowd of people and vehicles stream by. Resting her chin in her hands, Duck heard a passing car honk its horn, sending her on a journey down memory lane.

In Duck’s mind echoed the angry blare of a speeding car. On that day several months ago, Duck was about to run headlong into traffic chasing after Mytho’s vehicle, when a sharp tug on her braid yanked her away from a near collision with a car. Gripping the other end was Fakir, who then proceeded to yell at her for nearly getting herself run over.

The corners of Duck’s lips curled downward as she recalled her indignation at the soreness inflicted on her scalp. _Fakir was such a prick back then_ , Duck mentally grumbled as the downhill slant of her lips steepened. _But still, if he hadn’t done that, I probably wouldn’t be here._ _And that wasn’t the last time he’d save me, either…_

At that thought, the pout on Duck’s lips faded as a foggy memory of herself laying half-dazed in a darkened alley surfaced. Her memories from that time were hazy, due to the chloroform forced on her. Yet, she could still recall—with heart-wrenching clarity—Fakir’s voice screaming at her to run, all while holding off the two mobsters sent to kidnap her, the pair of whom she could barely make out of the darkness.

And run she did. In Duck’s memories, it felt like running was all she did for a very long time. First it had been the US Marshall Service, who shepherded her away from everything and everyone she had ever known; then it was Mytho, who spirited her away to Chicago. By then, Duck had become resigned to the fate that she could never go home again, could never sit at the counter in this very shop ever again.

But when Mytho fired his gun at her, and all her running away seemed for naught, she’d awoken to find none other than Fakir at her side, just as he had promised he would be.

_…As long as you’ll let me, I’ll always be here to protect you…_

Duck sighed softly and felt her cheeks growing warm again. _Maybe, Pique was right after all…_

It was strange to Duck that she hadn’t perceived the implications behind those words until this very moment, several months later. She could have simply been incredibly naive or uncommonly dense—perhaps even a little of both. Still, it left her with the question of this fresh epiphany unanswered.

Duck knew she couldn't bring herself to confront Fakir about it. What if she and Pique were wrong? In that case, if she said anything about it to him, she’d make a complete fool of herself, and Fakir might never let her live it down. Or, even worse—he would be so uncomfortable and repulsed by the mere notion of it that he would never speak to her again.

Duck’s mind could not stop fussing over the idea that Fakir might harbor deeper feelings for her. Certainly, Duck herself considered him a close and trusted friend. But was that all he was to her?

Mr. Kotin loved to pontificate at length about love, and one of his favorite speeches was how love, like ballet, required two willing partners who could dance in harmony. If her relationship with Fakir was a dance, and he extended his hand to her as an invitation to a pas de deux, would she take his hand?

Duck had no answer for that question, so unsure was she of her own feelings on the matter. Her stomach fluttered as she pondered whether or not she was over-analyzing a simple joke from Pique.

In this state of mind, Duck’s thoughts drifted unbidden down a distant lane of her memory, to a time before she had come to New York. She had been no more than four years old at the time, and was sitting on her grandfather’s lap as he read her a story from an open book. Though unable to recall the specific words he read, or the exact sound of her grandfather’s voice, Duck could still remember the gist of their conversation with clarity.

“…And so, with the dragon now slain, the knight rushed toward the castle where the princess was held captive. The princess, having been informed of his arrival by her little animal friends, rushed to meet him. With the wizard’s spell broken, the knight threw open the castle gates, and there she was: the lady he had pined for. As the knight put down his sword, he and the princess closed the distance between the two of them. At long last, they were wrapped in each other’s embrace.” 

Here her grandfather turned the last page in the book and said, “The End.”

“But what happens to the princess after that, Grandpa?” Little Duck asked, her tiny brows furrowed. “Did the princess fall in love with the knight? What happened to them afterward? Did they live happily ever after?”

A chuckle reached the child’s ears. As the man closed the book in her lap, a white gloved hand gently patted Duck’s head. “That is one possibility, my dear. This is the version I recorded, but no one knows what really happened to the knight and the princess afterward because it was never written down.”

“But I thought all stories end with ‘happily ever after’,” replied a disappointed Duck.

“Unfortunately, that is not the case, my dear,” the owner of the gloved hand answered gravely. “Happiness is but one possibility for any story. Sorrow, anger, and regret are all facets of any good tale, and stories can go in many directions even after ‘the end’.

“But while we may never know how someone else’s story ends...” Here, her grandfather’s hand lovingly stroked Duck’s head, ruffling her downy red hair. “Know that you, and you alone, can write the ending of your own story. It is up to you to decide what sort of story it will ultimately be…”

In the present day, Duck’s eyes shifted from the stream of traffic back to the pedestrians heading down the sidewalk. Knowing what she knew now about her mother’s past, Duck could finally comprehend the words her grandfather had spoken then. She watched as a young couple walked past the shop, arms linked and bright smiles on their faces. 

Duck wondered idly if that was what her mother Elsa, and her father Loeguire, looked like when they were first married. Their love story had ended in tragedy and betrayal, with Elsa no longer able to dance a pas de deux because she had lost her ability to trust her partner. 

Although her own love story was at this point nothing more than a bundle of maybes and vague possibilities, Duck found herself wondering what sort of ending her story might have.

“Very well, then; I will be leaving now.”

Duck looked up and saw Mr. Kotin standing next to her, adjusting his hat. Glancing quickly at the clock, Duck saw it was barely a quarter past four. She rose from her seat and joined her friends at the door to see Mr. Kotin off.

To his employees, Mr. Kotin said, “Since it has been a slow day, you may close up the shop early if you’d like.”

“Great!” Pique grinned, then added quickly, “Ah, I mean—don’t worry, leave it to us!”

Duck smiled at her supervisor. “Good luck, Mr. Kotin!”

Mr. Kotin nodded in acknowledgment of her support. Inhaling deeply, he squared his chin and pulled open the shop door. With a slight tremor in his voice, he uttered “May Venus smile upon me tonight!” and walked out the door.

The girls watched his figure gradually disappear down the street. Once he was gone from sight, Pique turned around, beaming. “Well, you heard him—let’s close down the shop! My mom’s been telling me about this radio drama on WGY that she’d been listening to, and I might actually be able to make it home and tune in today!”*

The three shop girls worked quickly, and before long the shop was all closed up, with the most valuable merchandise having been put away for the night. As Duck finished locking up the cash register, Pique said to her, “Duck, isn’t your birthday coming up soon? Have you thought about what you want to do?”

Duck blinked. “Eh? Um, not really…”

“Your birthday is on August 16th, isn’t it? That’s a Sunday this year,” Lillie noted as she flipped through the pages of the little desk calendar to August 16.*

“We should do something to celebrate!” Pique insisted. “You were gone caring for your mother’s ailing friend all of Christmas and New Year. We didn’t even have a chance to drink hot cocoa together! We have to make up for lost time during your birthday this year.”

“You’re right…we never did get to go out last Christmas…” Duck laughed nervously at the thinly constructed coverup story to explain her absence over the holiday season. Fearing they would probe further, Duck quickly replied, “I don’t have anything planned yet. What do you think we should do?”

Suddenly, a series of loud drumming noises erupted outside the shop. Startled by the commotion, the girls rushed towards the shop door, and Duck’s eyes spread wide open when she beheld the sight before her.

* * *

Fakir made his way across the busy road and paused just shy of the Kotin Pointe Shoe shop window. Turning his head to glance inside without drawing attention to himself, Fakir could see Duck near the window, her back turned toward him as she conversed with her two coworkers. Though he had no idea what they were talking about, seeing the carefree smile on Duck’s face allowed Fakir to breathe a sigh of reassured relief. 

Though he had planned to stop by the pointe shoe shop the day before, various delays had meant Fakir was unable to leave his desk until after sunset—yet again. Today, on the other hand, his luck seemed to change. Not only were there no new cases, but Alex, who evidently felt guilty for leaving Fakir to work alone late into the night, had offered to help his partner finish the remaining paperwork. This left Fakir in the unusual but much welcomed situation of actually being able to leave work at a reasonable hour for once.

Stepping out of the precinct, Fakir made a beeline for the Kotin Pointe Shoe Shop on C Street. With nothing seeming to be out of place and Duck going about her day as usual, Fakir wondered if he ought to take a closer look around the area, just in case there were suspicious people loitering about. But before he could decide on a plan, he was startled by a small, accented voice by his leg.

“What are you looking at, zura?”

Fakir’s eyes looked down and were met by a toddler with deep blue eyes. The child was clad rather incongruously in a red and white dress draped over a pair of purple and blue striped trousers. A little toy drum hung from a strap around the child’s waist, and Fakir wondered if there was a circus in town and one of the performer’s children had run off.

“Uh, nothing,” Fakir muttered. “Are you lost? Where’s your mother?” he asked, trying to sound composed even though his heart was still beating quickly from being taken by surprise.

But the stubborn toddler seemed to be willfully ignoring his questions, and pointing one of the drumsticks at Fakir, the small child declared, “But you were staring at the store, zura.”

“No, I wasn’t staring! It was just a quick peek!” Fakir replied defensively.

“Does that mean you are a ‘peeping tom’, then?” the child asked with perfect wide-eyed innocence.

“No! I—!” At a loss for words, Fakir gritted his teeth and felt his face beginning to burn. Annoyed at how riled up he was getting because of this strange child, Fakir crouched down and said pointedly to the toddler, “You _must_ be lost. Where did you come from?”

To Fakir’s horror, instead of answering, the child started banging on the drum while singing, “Looking, looking, looking, looking!”

“Hey! Stop that!” Again, the child ignored him. Desperate for the toddler to stop, Fakir picked up the child by the arms and lifted the wriggling youngster into the air. The relentless drumming ceased as the child seemed to take delight in being picked up, but Fakir could feel the stares from numerous bystanders as he stood dangling a young child in midair. As he had only succeeded in further embarrassing himself, Fakir’s face was now beet red from mortification. 

“Fakir?”

Fakir whirled around, still holding the giggling toddler in his hands, and came face to face with an incredulous, wide-eyed Duck who had stuck her head out the shop door to investigate the source of the strange noise.

“What are you doing here?” Duck asked with a gasp, walking out onto the street, followed closely by her two friends.

“I—! I was just passing by!” Fakir said quickly, putting the child back down as the three girls looked askance at him. “Things were, uh, a little quiet today at the precinct, so I left early today. This random kid started making a ruckus in the middle of the street, so I...I picked her up and got her to stop.”

“Oh…I see…” Duck said, laughing nervously. The thoughts she had been mulling over earlier came rushing back into her mind as her cheeks began to flush involuntarily at the sight of her neighbor.

It felt like ages since she’d last seen him at the shop, and she could barely remember the last time they had a proper conversation ( _Was it when I was complaining to him about the electric bill two weeks ago?_ Duck wondered for a moment). Although his presence had caught her off guard, she was still glad to see that, despite looking a little haggard at the moment, Fakir otherwise looked his usual self and his hectic work hours hadn’t affected his health.

_But his timing really couldn’t have been any worse,_ Duck bemoaned. _Of all days to walk by the shop, why did it have to be today?_

As if reading her mind, Lillie scooted up between them and cooed, “What a coincidence! We were just talking about you earlier!”

Duck saw a shadow cover Fakir’s face at those words. In a panic, she stepped in front of Lillie and turned to the child, who was watching their exchange with great interest, blabbering, “Uh, ah... w-we should find wh-where this little girl came from! Do you know who she is, Fakir?”

Before Fakir can respond, Edel stepped out of her shop and made her way towards them. “Ah, Zurab, there you are,” she called to the little drummer.

Four sets of eyes went from Edel to the toddler, who skipped away and said excitedly to Edel, “Deida Edel, look! There are so many funny people here!”

“You know this child, Miss Edel?” Duck asked. 

Edel smiled. “Yes, I do.” To Duck and the others gathered around her, the jewelry shopkeeper said, “This little one is a bud from a branch of the same tree as I. Zurab’s mother is related to me from my mother’s side, whilst Zurab’s father is Georgian, and the child was actually born in Georgia.”

“Really? I’ve never met anyone from that state before!” Duck exclaimed, but Pique nudged her and whispered, “I think she meant the _country_ , Duck. I don’t think ‘deida’ is an English word.”

Edel chuckled, “You are correct, Pique. Zurab is from the nation, or rather, the former nation of Georgia.” A hint of melancholy appeared between Edel’s thin brows as she explained, “A branch of my family moved from Germany to Georgia many, many years ago to work in the wine trade. Zurab’s mother was from that branch of the family. But with things the way they are in the Caucasus nowadays, Zurba’s mother and father have decided to move here, where things are more stable.*

“Unfortunately, Zurab’s mother came down with consumption and is currently recovering at a sanitorium in Upstate New York. Zurab’s father is unable to care for them as he has to attend to some very urgent business back in Georgia. This is why, for the time being,” Edel said as she touched the top of Zurab’s head affectionately, “Zurab will be in my care.”

“That’s so sad she can’t be with her parents,” Duck said sorrowfully. As someone whose mother was also stricken by a deathly illness, the shop girl felt an immediate kinship with the child. Kneeling in front of Zurab, Duck smiled tenderly. “I’m sorry you have to be apart from your family, Zurab. My name is Duck, and I’m pleased to meet you!”

“Duck? You mean like quack-quack-quack, ducky duck?” the child responded.

Duck laughed, a little embarrassed, but was not altogether surprised by Zurab’s response. She had, after all, gotten similar responses all her life whenever she introduced herself to people. “Eh, yes, like a duck, Duck.”

“Oh…” Zurab exclaimed softly. Pointing a finger at Duck’s head, the toddler then said, “But if you are a ducky, shouldn’t you have short hair like a duck? Your hair is so long. Is this what they call oldie-lady hair?”

At this, Duck’s smile was flipped upside down. “Er, what?! Well—!“

Zurab then turned away from Duck and pointed a pudgy finger in Lillie and Pique’s direction. Much to their chagrin, the child said, “I saw pictures of oldie-ladies with buns and ribbons in their hairs, so that means they have oldie-lady hair too!”

Fakir was glaring daggers at the child already, and the toddler seemed to consider his expression for a moment. But Zurab was evidently not the least bit intimidated by Fakir’s glower, and said with great matter-of-factness, “This one doesn’t have oldie-lady hair, but his hair’s so long and poufy, like a bird’s nest!”

Seeing that her young relative had managed to insult every single person present, Edel stepped in and said to the child, “Now Zurab, that’s enough. Remember, it’s not nice to point at people.” While Zurab gave her a small pout, the jewelry shopkeeper looked back to the group and said with embarrassment, “My apologies. Zurab was looking at magazines earlier today, and this child can be very forthright at times. Please do not take it personally.”

“No… it’s fine,” Duck attempted to shrug off the awkward conversation that had just taken place, but Lillie and Pique were still quite hung up on the comments about their hairdos.

“I’ve always worn my hair like this,” Pique picked at a lock of her hair, grumbling. “But it would be nice to have a change and get a more modern look.”

Lillie’s eyes lit up as an idea came to her, and she turned to Duck excitedly. “Maybe that’s what we ought to do for your birthday, Duck! The three of us should go get stylish bobbed cuts, and we can look fabulously smart and chic, just like Miss Belyky!”

Pique gasped and enthusiastically clasped hands with Lillie. “Hey! That’s a great idea! And after we get our haircuts, we’ll go and have a night on the town in Manhattan!”

“And go to swanky parties!” Lillie enthused.

“Where we’ll mingle with the rich and famous!” added a starry-eyed Pique.

“Um…” Duck cleared her throat, and the sound of her small voice brought the two other girls back down to earth. “How are we going to get into those parties though? We don’t know anyone who’s rich or famous…”

Looking at each other, Lillie and Pique shrugged in unison. “That’s what fashionable people do all the time, though,” Pique said, pouting. “Haven’t you read Lipstick’s column in _The New Yorker_? She goes to a different party every night!”*

“But Duck does have a point,” Lillie said thoughtfully. “Going to parties requires a new dress, makeup—not to mention jewelry, a purse, and other things,” the blonde said, counting off each item on her fingers.

Pique groaned, Lillie’s statement seeming to finally burst her bubble. The girl with violet hair therefore replied, “Alright, so parties are out. But we still ought to do something special for your birthday, Duck. Isn’t there anything you want to do?”

“Me?” Duck touched her lips thoughtfully. All this discussion about ritzy parties and looking fashionable conjured up old memories of her evening at the opera with Fakir, when she had worn a gown for the first time. Remembering how special she felt when she first put on that lovely apricot chiffon dress, Duck smiled and mused to herself, “Mm… it would be nice to go see an opera again…”

“But an opera is just as expensive, if not more so, than going to a party!” Pique retorted, crossing her arms. “And you’ve been to an opera? I’ve never heard you mention that before!” 

Realizing her slip-up, Duck waved her hands about while Zurab stood and watched her inquisitively. “Eh—I mean, I had listened to an opera on the radio! That’s right, um...” Thinking quickly, Duck continued, “You know the grocery store on A Street? The owner recently bought a radio, and I heard an opera while I was shopping there a while ago, and…I was just thinking it would be nice to see one in person…”

“I see. But an opera is definitely out of all of our budgets. We could go watch a movie instead,” Pique suggested.

“I suppose,” Duck said unenthusiastically. “But we just saw two movies last week…”

“How about going for lunch, then?” Pique suggested, “Like my grandma used to say: ‘A birthday celebration would be remiss without good food and good company!’ We can go somewhere nice and indulge a little.”

Duck twisted her lips with consideration, but Lillie shook her head. “That won’t work. Her birthday is on a Sunday this year, Pique. Most places are closed that day!”

Pique grimaced. “Drat! That’s a good point. What else can we do, then?” 

Seeing they were at a loss, Duck remembered the newspaper she had been reading earlier and said, “Well, if we really want to do something a bit different… how about going to the zoo? I read in the newspaper that the Bronx Zoo recently brought in a new baby elephant. It looked so cute in the photo, and I’d love to see it in person!”

Hearing this, a disappointed Lillie whined, “That’s all? The zoo?”

“Hey!” Pique patted Lillie on the back. “I don’t see anything wrong with that! If young, modern women such as ourselves can go to fancy parties in Manhattan, then we can also go to the zoo on our own, unchaperoned and unsupervised!”

“I… suppose,” Lillie sighed. She smiled at Duck. “Well, if that’s what the birthday girl would like, we’ll go to the zoo, then!”

“Yes!” Pique fist-pumped the air, drawing glances from other pedestrians as she enthusiastically proclaimed, “We’ll get our hairs bobbed, and we’ll stroll through the Bronx Zoo like modern, fashionable young women! That’s the ticket!”

Duck couldn’t help but giggle at her friend’s enthusiasm. Feeling a tug on the corner of her dress, Duck turned and found Zurab looking up at her.

“Duck, what is an el-uh-fuhnt, zura?” the toddler asked.

“An elephant? Hmm… it’s a big creature with really, really big ears and a really, really long nose,” Duck said, fanning her hands by her head, mimicking the fan-like ears of an elephant. 

“Ohhhhh...” Out came another lengthy remark from the blue-eyed child. “Zurab knows what that is! You’re talking about ein elefant!”

Duck blinked at the sudden burst of German coming from Zurab, and then smiled. “Um, yes, that’s the one! Have you seen one before?”

“I saw them in books, zura,” Zurab answered, “but never a real elefant. Can Zurab come see den elefanten, too?”

At this question, the girls looked uncomfortably at one another. Duck glanced at Edel standing nearby, who only smiled silently at her in response.

Looking back at the expectant expression on little Zurab’s face, Duck could not deny the child this one simple wish, and replied gently, “I would love to have you come with me. That will be alright, wouldn’t it? Pique? Lillie?” She looked beseechingly at her friends, both of whom looked visibly disinclined at the prospect of having a toddler tag along on what was supposed to be a special girls’ day out.

Not wanting to be a scrooge, a reluctant Pique mumbled, “Sure… I guess.”

Oblivious to the adults’ reluctance, Zurab jumped with joy and exclaimed, “Yay! Zurab is going to see der elefanten, zura!” Twirling around, Zurab bound back to Edel and piped, “Deida Edel, I’m going to go see the elephants!”

“That’s wonderful, Zurab,” Edel responded softly, patting Zurab’s head. “You’ve learned a new word as well, haven’t you?”

Zurab nodded enthusiastically and began tapping on the drum, “Diakh, zura! Elefanten, elephant, elefanten, elephant…!”

Seeing Zurab singing happily, Duck couldn’t help but smile as well. After she turned back around toward her friends, only then did Duck realize Fakir was no longer present.

_He left already?_ Duck wondered with displeasure as Pique rallied them to finish closing up the shop. _His rude habit of wandering off without saying a word hasn’t changed…_ Duck groused, even as she felt a small pang of disappointment. _Still,_ _it’s probably better he went on ahead, or else Lillie and Pique would surely have teased me again._

Before closing the door behind her, Duck glanced down the street towards their apartment some blocks away.

_I hope Fakir gets some rest today. Maybe I’ll get to see him later…_

* * *

Fakir had watched with mild interest as the girls weighed their options for Duck’s birthday. Seeing them completely absorbed in their discussion, after a few minutes, Fakir decided this was a good time to make an exit without drawing attention to himself.

Walking home alone, the thought of Duck’s birthday remained on Fakir’s mind. Though he had previously asked Duck for her birth date, it has been collected as part of Duck’s file in the Corvo case, and he had not bothered to put the entire thing to memory. Too embarrassed to ask Duck herself, Fakir made a mental note to dig out Duck’s file later and find out what the date was.

But, he soon realized the action of going out of his way to look up her birth date insinuated that he should do something with the information.

_Should I get her a present?_ The detective wondered as he climbed the familiar flights of stairs in their building back to the floor they shared. _I suppose I ought to… but what would I get her?_ The scowl on Fakir’s face deepened as he closed the door of his apartment and began removing his jacket and tie.

Truth be told, Fakir wasn’t sure what Duck’s hobbies were, just that she seemed to like bread a lot and enjoyed ballet. Fakir briefly entertained the idea of gifting Duck a loaf of bread for her birthday, but quickly nipped the ridiculous idea in the bud.

_If I did that, she would probably never speak to me again_ , Fakir thought, grimacing as he walked into his bedroom and opened the window.

Tossing a fresh linen shirt out from the closet onto his bed, Fakir undid the buttons on his shirt cuffs as he weighed the merits of getting her a new hat or maybe a pair of gloves. But those options seemed mundane, like what one would expect from a friend or family member.

_Isn’t that what I am to her though? Just a friend…_

Taking off his dress shirt, Fakir picked up the linen shirt from the bed. As he looked up, his eyes caught on the reflection in the small shaving stand mirror he had left on his desk.

The image reflected back at him was of a man with dark, blotched scars covering his back, the result of a devastating chemical burn that had nearly killed him as a child. In Fakir’s mind, beyond their physical hideousness, the scars were also a constant reminder of his own fallacies and flaws.

Fakir threw the shirt over his shoulders and turned his eyes away from the mirror, the furrow between his brows growing deeper. Had he not been so perversely stubborn in his pursuit of the Corvos, Duck might not have become so deeply entangled in the whole affair, and would not have had her life uprooted and thrown into jeopardy. The idea of wanting, even yearning, for something beyond friendship—it seemed unfair to her.

_Things are fine the way they are now,_ Fakir insisted resolutely. Yet, even as he told himself this, an ever-present ache in Fakir’s heart made him cast a brief glance at the wall that connected his apartment to Duck’s.

* * *

Duck sighed loudly into the space of her empty apartment as she closed the door behind her. Even though she was home early, all this discussion and planning for her birthday had exhausted the redheaded shop girl.

“Ugh! It wasn’t even that busy today, but I’m beat! How is it that planning a birthday trip can be so exhausting?” Duck groaned as she kicked off her shoes and sulked to the bedroom, where she flopped down on the bed.

After closing her eyes for a long moment, Duck opened them again and gazed up at the lace-draped wooden cabinet where her mother’s pictures were displayed. She sat up and reached for the photo of her mother and herself, brushing away the tiny flecks of dust from the glass.

“Things were pretty slow at the shop, so I’m home early today, Ma,” Duck said to Elsa’s photo. “Something interesting did happen today, though. Mr. Kotin has a crush! Her name is Miss Anna Belyky. I haven’t met her yet, but Lillie and Pique say she’s a beauty, and Mr. Kotin really seems to have fallen head-over-heels for her. He’s planning on confessing to her tonight over dinner,” Duck said, glancing at the alarm clock on her night stand. “I think he should be on his way by now. I really hope things work out well for him.”

Here Duck paused, and her cheeks grew flushed. More softly, she said, “Lillie and Pique were teasing me again today. Pique says Fakir fancies me. I…” Duck’s voice faded and the corner of her lips twitched apprehensively, “I guess it _is_ possible… after all, he did come looking for me all the way to Chicago, and he promised to stay with me. It’s just that, I…”

Duck sighed again, and she briefly cast her eyes in the direction of Fakir’s apartment. “…I’m not really sure how I feel towards Fakir. I mean, he’s a great friend. He can be a little bit rude and annoying sometimes—well, maybe more than a little bit—but despite that, he’s done so much for me, and really watches out for me. B-But..."

At this point, it felt like Duck’s heart was frenetically dancing inside her. "...The idea that he even _might_ like me _that_ way makes me feel jittery all over, a-and…my face gets so hot when I think of it! Was this…what it was like when you fell in love with Pa…?”

Duck’s question was followed by silence as the dim noise of the city hummed in the background. On top of the cabinet, the summer sunlight illuminated the empty jewelry box that once housed a precious gold and garnet pendant. Duck’s thoughts turned to that gorgeous pendant and how it served a dual reminder of Elsa’s love and heartbreak.

Tracing a finger over her mother’s face in the photo, Duck said quietly, “I’m sorry for what Pa did to you, Ma. I can’t help but wonder, though…”

_Everything I’m feeling right now…could this really be love?_

Exhaling softly, Duck brushed a stray strand of hair from her face. The sensation of her hair in her hand reminded Duck of something, and a little bit of cheer returned to her face.

“Oh! I almost forgot: Pique and Lillie are planning to get their hairs bobbed next week! They want me to cut mine too, but I don’t know…” Duck touched the tip of her braid. “After all these years, it would feel strange to not have long hair…”

For as long as Duck could remember, both she and her mother had worn their hair long. It was a job unto itself to keep her hair clean and neat, and there were days when—despite all her best efforts—her voluminous red mane simply refused to be tamed. But Duck had long since grown accustomed to caring for her long locks, and the idea of chopping it all off sent a shudder of dread through her, as though someone was asking her to give up an arm or a leg.

Looking back at the photo, the sight of her girlish braid and her mother’s carefully pinned back hair reminded Duck of a bygone ritual. Each morning, Elsa would brush and braid her daughter’s hair before sending Duck off to school. Then, in the evening, mother and daughter would brush one other’s hair while trading stories about their daily lives, after which they would head off to bed. Duck could still remember the sounds of their laughter, the two of them joking and sharing both the good and the bad at the end of each day.

As the memories of those days filled with stories and laughter faded into distant echoes in her mind, Duck stood up and placed the picture back on the cabinet. Telling herself she still had time to think about it before her birthday, Duck realized she ought to make a note of the zoo trip as well, lest she forget about it later.

After fishing out a pencil from a drawer, Duck walked over to the free wall calendar she had received from Miss Ebine’s grocery store. Below the large printed image of a dairy cow and advertising tag lines for cream and butter, there was a tiny pad of paper showing the days of the month. Tearing off the sheet for July, Duck found the number “16” for the month of August, circled it, then penciled in “zoo trip” below the date.

Satisfied, she was about to return the pencil to its drawer, when she suddenly remembered something else. She paused, turning back around.

Walking back to the calendar, Duck flipped to the month of October. With a solemn expression, Duck circled the day of the 24th and gingerly wrote two words in small, neat handwriting:

“Visit Ma”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bear with me, I’ve got a lot of notes again this time. Ready? Take a deep breath…okay, let’s go!
> 
> * The poster of Niagara Falls Duck saw is a real travel poster from the 1920’s. For those curious as to what it looks like, if you Google “1920’s travel poster Niagara Falls” you should be able to find the poster of the falls with a rainbow.
> 
> * The Sheik of Arabia and Lady Diana reference are from the famous 1921 Rudolph Valentino movie, “The Sheik”. The plot centered about the titular character, the sheik, and his obsession with Lady Diana, a headstrong young woman who had traveled alone to North Africa. As a result of the popularity of this movie, handsome men were often called “sheiks” in 1920’s lingo.
> 
> * The monologue from Mr. Kotin is a paraphrased excerpt from the novel “Don Quixote”, in which the titular character is describing his ideal woman, the lady Dulcinea del Toboso. Mr. Kotin’s crush, Miss Anna Belyky, on the other hand, is based on the real-life Russian ballerina, Anna Pavlova (who also happened to be the inspiration for a famous dessert in Australia and New Zealand). “Belyky” is the Russian word for “white”, which was chosen because in the anime, Neko-sensei ended up married with kittens to a white cat.
> 
> * WGY is the name of one of the first widely broadcasted radio stations in the United States. The station pioneered the broadcast of drama series over the airwave. Companies, such as soap manufacturer Proctor & Gamble, sponsored many radio dramas in the 1920’s and 1930’s, which was the origin of the term “soap opera”.
> 
> * August 16th, 2002 is the air date for the first episode of Princess Tutu on TV in Japan. I therefore felt August 16th would be an appropriate birthdate for Duck.
> 
> * Little Zurab is a descendent of Caucasus Germans, who were moved from southern Germany to the Caucasus by Catherine the Great beginning in the early 19th century. There, they formed their own communities and colonies, engaging in farming and viticulture (i.e. wine production). The areas where they settled are in modern day Georgia, Azerbaijan, Armenia, the North Caucasus region of Russia, and northeastern Turkey.
> 
> * Lipstick was the pseudonym for The New Yorker columnist, Lois Long. Long’s columns often featured reviews of speakeasies and other New York night life, as well as her experience drinking, dining, and dancing at a variety of glamorous establishments in and around the city. She famously wrote that she liked “music, and informality, and gaiety”, which became the epitomes of the flapper life style in the 1920s.
> 
> Lastly, Zurab, when not speaking English, is speaking either German (e.g. “elefant” and “elefanten” are, respectively, the singular and plural words for “elephant”) or Georgian (“diakh” is “yes”, while “deida” is “aunt” or “aunty”).
> 
> Once again, many thanks to my friend Tomoyo Ichijouji for proofreading!


	3. Chapter 3

The bright midday sun beamed down on Fakir as he exited the rowhouse. Adjusting his hat, he waited for Alex, who was busy flipping through his notebook, reviewing his lines of notes.

“This case seems solid, Sarge,” Alex commented to Fakir, before finally closing the notebook and tucking it away into his pocket. “With Mr. Hickman’s account, that makes for a total of four witness testimonies. I can’t imagine Pete Luciano would be able to get out of this one,” the junior detective remarked, beaming confidently as he followed Fakir down the street to their parked vehicle. 

Fakir, however, cast a wary scowl at the junior officer’s optimism. “I wouldn’t be ready to take this case to the bank just yet, Alex. You need to remember that none of the people in that club actually _saw_ Luciano pull the trigger and kill Danny Boiardo; they only saw Luciano and Boiardo get into a heated argument and that Boiardo spat in Luciano’s face. Boiardo leaves, followed by Luciano. Ten minutes later, a busboy taking out the trash finds Boiardo dead by the backdoor, shot in the head. All things point to Pete Luciano, but a good defense attorney can argue the whole thing is circumstantial, and no one ever _saw_ Luciano pull the trigger.”

“You have a point there,” a deflated Alex breathed a heavy sigh. “But at least we have people who are willing to talk. More often than not, we know there are witnesses, but none of them are willing to come forward!”

Here Fakir nodded. “That is true…” The thought of a red-haired girl flashed through his mind, and an unwitting smile appeared on the usually stoic detective’s face. “There are brave people out there who want to do what is right.”

A brightly painted sign across the street for a tobacconist and confectioner shop drew Fakir’s attention. Patting his breast pocket and finding it empty, he turned to the junior detective while he was unlocking the car and said, “Alex, I’m going to get some cigarettes. I’ll be right back.”

After his partner nodded, Fakir made his way across the street. Quickly finding what he was looking for, Fakir paid for two packs of Chesterfield cigarettes at the register, and was on his way out when a flash of movement from the back of the shop caught his attention.

Looking closely, Fakir saw that the shop’s dimly lit backdoor was open. That in itself was not unusual, as it was a warm day and the tobacconist was likely trying to let some air into the otherwise stuffy store.

But what was unusual were the four short figures hoovering near the door, young boys whose heads were just barely visible around the door jamb. One of them peered in, and after a moment, warily stepped inside. Fakir, who was standing just shy of their line of sight, watched as this lanky boy tiptoed forward, hugging the shadows while his friends watched with silent excitement from outside.

As a cop, Fakir was only too aware of what the young rascals were up to, and stepped in front of the boy just as he reached out his hand toward a packet of chocolate. Fakir’s sudden presence made the would-be shoplifter jerk his head up, and Fakir found himself looking into a familiar pair of brown eyes. “Eddie?”

With a cry of alarm, the boys at the door scattered like rabbits.

Eddie Corioli took off running as well, and the commotion drew the attention of the shop owner, who came rushing from the counter, shouting and waving his walking stick in the air, “You little brats! Scram before I break your legs!”

The four boys were certainly in no mood to stick around, and split up in four different directions as soon as they exited the alleyway behind the smoke shop.

Fakir turned toward Eddie's escape path and followed closely behind him, his height and wider stride allowing him to keep pace with the sprightly youngster. The detective called out, “Eddie! Wait!”

Expecting the boy to keep running, Fakir was surprised when the dark-haired boy actually slowed down. Looking over his shoulder at Fakir, he shouted defensively, “I didn’t steal anything! You can’t arrest me!”

“Attempted theft is still theft,” Fakir responded pointedly, but before the boy could take off running again, he quickly added, “But I’m not here to arrest you!”

“Then why are you following me?” Eddie snapped back as they stood staring warily at one another from across the middle of the quiet street. 

Fakir pondered for a moment before putting his hands in his pockets, a posture that would make it difficult for him to break into a sprint. In an even voice, he said, “I want to talk to you.”

Eddie looked doubtfully at the detective, but seeing Fakir’s non-threatening stance and the fact that he was keeping his distance, the boy relaxed a fraction and grumbled petulantly, “About what?” 

_Good question_ , Fakir thought to himself as he cleared his throat. Though a part of him was concerned for the boy and what he must have been going through in the aftermath of his father’s murder, Fakir was not prepared to come face-to-face with Eddie again so soon after their first meeting.

Deciding sincere honesty was the best option in this situation, Fakir said, “I want to know how you’re doing.”

Eddie shrugged as he shuffled his feet. “About the same…” He then looked pointedly at Fakir. “What’s it to you?”

The corner of Fakir’s lips twisted and for a moment he was at a loss for words as many threads of thoughts and emotions weaved through his head.

Sensing Eddie’s expectant gaze, an idea came to Fakir. Meeting the boy’s eyes, he said, “How about I get you a chocolate bar and we sit and talk for a bit?”

The glower on Eddie’s face clearly communicated the child’s displeasure, as well as some discomfort, at Fakir’s presence. But Fakir’s hunch that the boy had a weakness for chocolate—enough that he was be willing to commit theft for it—was right on the mark. After a few seconds of internal struggle, Eddie silently nodded his assent. 

With that agreement, Fakir turned back to the tobacconist shop and purchased the bar of chocolate Eddie had tried to lift earlier. Breaking off a small piece, Fakir walked back toward where Eddie stood looking at him reproachfully, and handed the portion to him. “Stay here for a minute. I’ll give you the rest when I come back around.” 

As Eddie silently glared at the detective, Fakir dashed back across the street, the partially wrapped piece of chocolate still in hand, and hurried up to the car where Alex was waiting.

After explaining the situation to him, Fakir said to his partner, “You go ahead and head on back to the precinct. I’ll be over shortly, but I might be a few minutes late for the department meeting at eleven.” 

“Are you sure you’ll be all right, Sarge?” the junior officer glanced down the street at Eddie, who stood with his arms crossed, his brown eyes fixed on the remaining chocolate in Fakir’s hand.

Fakir huffed. “Alex, he’s a 12-year-old kid. The worst he could do is kick me in the shins if I don’t give him the rest of this candy bar.”

Hearing this, Alex sighed with resignation. “Well, all right, then—I see what you’re trying to do. Just be careful; I’ll let the captain know you might run a little late.”

“Thank you, Alex,” Fakir patted his partner’s shoulder.

Alex smiled, and as the car engine came to life, said, “You are a good man, Sarge.”

Fakir watched silently as his partner pulled away into traffic. Left to himself, Fakir looked back at Eddie, and he silently hoped that he could live up to his partner’s high esteem.

* * *

Walking in silence, Fakir and Eddie ambled down the street, passing other children playing under the summer sun. By now, Eddie was on the last morsel of chocolate, and his lips were covered in the sweet brown stuff. Popping the last piece in his mouth, the boy thoroughly licked his lips and fingers clean, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

While Eddie finished the chocolate, Fakir scouted out a shaded and mostly clean staircase in front of a rowhouse. Taking a seat on the top of the short stairs, Fakir motioned for Eddie to join him. Eddie, however, purposefully sat away from him at the foot of the staircase.

Realizing this was a purposeful choice in case the boy needed to make a run for it, Fakir sighed, and asked the first question that came to mind. “So, whose idea was it to sneak into the smoke shop?”

As soon as that question left Fakir’s tongue, Eddie stood up, forcing Fakir to hold up his hands and say hurried, “Hold on! What I mean is—uh…!”

Clenching his fists in frustration, this situation was highly unusual for Fakir. Normally, he would have questions prepared in advance before walking into an interview. Furthermore, most of his interviewees were adults. On the rare occasions when Fakir had to speak to children for work, a family member or colleague would be on hand to help move the conversation along.

But today’s serendipitous encounter had left the usually composed and prepared detective tongue-tied. Forced to improvise, he had fallen back on his habits as a police officer and had began to question Eddie. Fakir knew however that if he asked one more ill-conceived question, the boy in front of him would bolt.

In an attempt to strike up repartee with the boy, Fakir reflected on his own childhood as he tried to recall what a boy Eddie’s age would be interested in. Clearing his throat, Fakir tried to act calm and collected as he explained, “I was just asking because, as a detective, I want to know if I’m dealing with a young Moriarty on my hands.”

But to Fakir’s utter disappointment, Eddie scrunched his brows and made a face. “Mori-who?”

Scoffing incredulously, Fakir looked askance at the boy. “Moriarty. The Napoleon of crime? Arch nemesis of Sherlock Holmes? Have you never read Doyle’s books before?”

Eddie shrugged again, and kicked at a bit of broken pavement with his worn leather shoes. “I’m not into reading; books are boring.”

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Fakir had to keep himself from groaning aloud. Feeling as though their conversation had suffered the same fate as Moriarty after his encounter with Sherlock Holmes at Reichenbach Falls, Fakir mentally wringed his hands for what to say next.

Luckily for the New York detective, he was saved from this awkward predicament when Eddie unexpectedly sniggered and said, “I don’t know who this Moriarty fellow is, but being a ‘Napoleon of crime’ sounds pretty swell. And I guess that’ll make you Detective Fakir Holmes, ain’t it?”

Now it was time for Fakir to raise a querying eyebrow. “You remembered my name?”

The corner of Eddie’s lips curled up impishly. “I don’t know who gave you your name, but it’s a pretty memorable one. Not many folks would forget a name that sounds like ‘fuc—‘”

“Hey!” Fakir barked at Eddie, who visibly flinched at the sharp rebuke. Pointing a finger at the boy, Fakir said ominously, “I may have said I wasn’t going to arrest you earlier, but that doesn’t mean I won’t change my mind.”

Seeing he was pushing his luck, Eddie rolled his eyes and gave up his cheeky act. “Ugh! Fine! You left your card with us, remember? And to answer your first question, _I_ was the one who came up with the idea to sneak in while that old mug wasn’t looking. Happy now?”

Hearing the undisguised cockiness in Eddie’s declaration, Fakir’s eyes narrowed. “Did you want the chocolate that badly?”

Eddie shrugged nonchalantly, shifting about on his heels as he kept his gaze on the ground. “Not really. But if I’m gonna run with the boys from Tommy Gaglinano’s squad someday, I have to first show ‘em what a sharper I am.”*

A part of Fakir was intrigued and a little amused by the boy’s bravado. After all, no thief with an ounce of common sense would ever openly declare their criminal intent to a police officer! But beyond the youthful brashness, the name of one of the powerful local crime bosses in Eddie’s statement sounded off a chorus of alarm bells in Fakir’s head.

“Why do you want to run with the Gagliano squad?” Fakir asked, treading carefully.

Eddie tsked derisively, as though the answer was obvious. “The boys in Tommy’s squad always dress sharp and have dough in their pockets. I wanted to join up, but they said I was too young and they only let people with ‘credentials’ into their ranks.”

“You sound like you’re pretty familiar with people in the Gagliano squad. But the things they’re involved in are far more serious than sneaking chocolate from a lame-footed tobacconist,” Fakir warned. Catching Eddie’s eyes, the detective said with emphasis, “The business they have their hands in can get people killed, just like what happened to your father. This isn’t a game, Eddie.”

Anticipating his statement might touch a nerve, Fakir was not altogether surprised when Eddie spun to face him and exclaimed, “Jesus, do you think I’m _stupid_? You, Mr. Police Man, go around talking like you know everything, but did _you_ know the only time my old man ever came back with any money was when he hustled? Those were the only times when we all had enough to eat at supper! I don’t want Ma and Eli and Angie to sew buttons from sunrise to sunset every single day! I don’t want the babies waking up crying at night because they’re hungry! The only way for that to happen is for me to do something big one day!”

Finished with his tirade, Eddie stood glaring at Fakir, his face red and nose flaring as he breathed in and out. Fakir studied the furious but earnest expression on Eddie’s face. After a pause, the detective said quietly, “You love your family very much, don’t you, Eddie?”

Caught off guard by Fakir’s candid question, Eddie turned away again. Taking a seat far away from Fakir on the curb, when the boy did speak again, his voice was quiet, barely audible above the background laughter and noise of the street around them. “Pa was a useless bum. He cared more about horse races than making sure we all had enough to eat. But he was still…”

With his back to him, Fakir could not see the boy’s expression, but a stifled whimper told Fakir enough of what he was feeling. More loudly, Eddie continued, “Once I’ve joined the Gaglianos and I get older and tougher, I’m gonna find that tall man who did my old man in and make him pay for it!”

Somewhere nearby a lone cicada began to cry, its sharp wails piercing the calm of an otherwise halcyon afternoon.

Fakir took a deep breath. Eddie’s words tugged at memories the dark-haired detective would rather have buried and never looked back on. But Fakir knew only too well what would be in store for Eddie should the boy walk the same path he had taken in life.

As his mind grasped for what to do next, Fakir reached into his pocket and busied himself with retrieving a fresh cigarette. Striking a match, Fakir watched as the match head and wooden stick were set alight by the flame.

The desire for revenge consumed everything in its path. But it did not need to be that way, Fakir told himself as he touched the match to the cigarette. With a swift flick of the wrist, Fakir extinguished the match, its flame now transformed into a trail of cool gray smoke rising from the lit cigarette.

Eddie was a head-strong boy, not unlike himself at that age, Fakir thought wistfully. How could he get through to the boy, when the treacherous riches of the streets spoke far more loudly than any words of caution Fakir could hope to impart to him?

_Our circumstances are not so dissimilar. If only he knew…_ The thought alone seemed to wrap itself around Fakir’s throat and choke back his voice.

Even so, Fakir, clearing his throat, persisted to push the words off of his tongue and said, “You don’t know this yet, but…you and I have something in common, Eddie.” 

An impatient Eddie huffed again and looked over his shoulder at Fakir. “Oh yeah? What’s that?” he asked, and it was evident from the tone of his voice that the boy was already formulating a sarcastic response to whatever Fakir might say.

Hearing the mocking tilt in Eddie’s voice, Fakir faltered. The secret he was about to divulge was something he had never shared with anyone before, and the fear of having his pain and suffering disparaged suddenly dredged up faraway memories of snickering voices pointing and murmuring behind his back.

Fighting the overwhelming urge to dismiss the topic and walk away, Fakir refused to take the easy way out of this situation. For once, he told himself, those painful memories might serve a positive purpose, however small their impact might be.

With that small measure of hope in mind, Fakir took a deep breath and said quietly, “My parents were also killed when I was a kid.”

The impish expression on Eddie’s face gave way to a look of genuine surprise. When the boy spoke again after a long pause, there was a touch of wariness in his voice. “When you say killed…what do you mean by that?”

Fakir inhaled deeply on the cigarette, then exhaled before he found his voice again. “They were murdered. Two men came and shot them. I was there, but I couldn’t see the faces of the people who killed them.”

“Were those men ever caught?” Eddie whispered.

Fakir’s eyes narrowed and he puffed harshly on his cigarette. “No…”

“Is that why you became a cop?”

Fakir blinked and saw the earnest curiosity in Eddie’s expression. “It was, but I did so because it was the only way I could think of to get justice, to find some measure of revenge on the people who killed my folks. For years, it was the only thing I cared about, even when I worked on other cases. But in the end,” here Fakir recalled his conversation with Mytho on the rusty banks of the frozen Calumet River, “it was all for naught. The people responsible were long dead.

“In the process of chasing after the murders, I’d pushed away a lot of people…and a lot of people were hurt because of me. It’s only after nearly losing someone important to me that I began to realize how blinded I had become.” 

Another protracted silence fell between Fakir and Eddie. Fakir watched from the top of the staircase as Eddie digested all this, sitting on the concrete curb. Tapping his cigarette against the edge of the stone stairs, Fakir exhaled as the emotional weight that he had unknowingly been carrying since the beginning of their encounter finally began to lift.

“I know you want to be able to do something to help find your father’s killer; I’ve been through that myself,” Fakir said, meeting Eddie’s gaze. “But if that’s all you focus on, then you’ll end up losing yourself to that desire. The gangs promise you wealth and power, but for most, those promises end in a life behind bars, or worse. Your mother and your sisters have already lost one person they care about. Don’t make them mourn for you as well.”

Standing up, Fakir walked down the steps and held his hand out to Eddie. “I promise you, I will do everything I can to find your father’s killer. Don’t dirty your hands, Eddie. Promise me that.”

Eddie’s lips scrunched into a grimace as he sat hunched with his arms tucked into his stomach. Just as Fakir thought the boy wasn’t going to budge, Eddie untangled his arms and he took Fakir’s proffered hand. With a light tug, Fakir pulled the boy to his feet.

“You really think you can find who did this to my old man?” Eddie asked skeptically, to which Fakir gave a curt nod.

Pulling his hand back to his side, Eddie seemed to consider something as he chewed on his lower lip. “When you came by last time…you asked us if there was anything we thought could be useful. Well, the man who came to see Pops, after you left I remembered something about him.” Here, Eddie looked up at Fakir and said, “He had a lisp.”

“A lisp?” Fakir echoed, his heart beginning to beat rapidly. “Was it a pronounced lisp?”

“Kinda,” Eddie shrugged his shoulders again. “I heard him talk for a little bit, but when I thought about it, I realized I couldn’t remember some of the words he’d said because he wasn’t pronouncing them right…”

“I see…” 

Fakir considered this new piece of information. With no other identifying information about Marco’s possible killer except for his gender and height, this latest description wouldn’t go far to revealing the suspect’s identity. _But it’s a start_ , Fakir told himself.

To Eddie, he said, “I’m having a meeting with my supervisor later today. I’ll be sure to let him and others on the force know about this new piece of information.”

With that said, Fakir checked his watch and only then did he realize what time it was. He cursed under his breath, “Damn it! It’s already 11:25!” The detective shook his head and started to walk away, “Sorry, I have to run. I’m running late for that meeting!” 

As Fakir jogged away, the boy cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Don’t forget our promise! You got that, Detective Fakir?”

Startled by Eddie’s voice, a brief smile flashed across Fakir’s lips. Turning to look back briefly at the boy, Fakir hollered back, “I won’t forget!” before sprinting off back towards the precinct.

* * *

By the time Fakir made it back to the 53rd precinct, the department meeting had already ended. Inside Charon’s office, the captain looked up at a breathless and sweating Fakir appeared at his door. 

“Sorry I’m late, Charon,” Fakir gasped as the captain waved him into the office and closed the door behind them.

“Goodness, Fakir, did you run all the way here?” Charon poured a cup of water from a glass decanter and handed it to Fakir, who accepted it gratefully before gulping it down.

“Alex has already updated me on the Boiardo case.” Returning to his seat behind his desk, Charon asked, “He said you ran into Marco Corioli’s son and stayed to talk with the boy. How is he doing?”

“Angry and frustrated, but understandably so, given what had happened to his father,” Fakir leaned forward and placed the cup on the desk.

Charon nodded somberly. “He was the last person in his family to see Marco alive. I imagine it must be hard for the boy.”

“It also seems that Eddie, like a lot of boys in his neighborhood, aspired to join a gang when he’s older,” Fakir added. “But I think I managed—or at least, I hope I did—to change his mind.”

“Is that right?” Here Charon raised his eyebrows, intrigued. “What did you tell him? I’ve always found it very hard to get through to boys like him, as they tend to be very stubborn and distrustful of anything the police say.”

“I…” Fakir paused.

Though the captain knew of Fakir’s connection to the Corvo’s via Mytho, Fakir had no desire to divulge the rest of his personal history with the Corvo clan. Even though the case was now closed following Domenico Corvo’s demise, Fakir’s complicated past with that organization might put his standing within the Homicide division at risk.

So Fakir answered, “I…just had a chat with him and I think I’ve talked him out of going down that road.” Hoping to move the topic away from him and back to the case, Fakir said, “Also, he gave me an additional description for the perp who was last seen with Marco: the man has a lisp.”

“I see…” Charon tapped the tips of his fingers together thoughtfully, and Fakir breathed a silent sigh of relief that the captain had shifted his focus. “That’s not terribly much more information than what we started out with, but it is a very distinctive trait. It wouldn’t hurt to ask the patrol officers in the area to see if anyone recalls a tall fellow with a lisp.” Shifting his eyes from his fingers back to Fakir, the captain said more softly, “What about the threat against yourself and Miss Stannus? Has your contact gotten back to you yet?”

Fakir frowned and shook his head. “I’ve been keeping a closer eye on Duck, and am watching my own back more carefully as well. But truthfully, I don’t think there is much we can do at this point except to be vigilant.”

Charon nodded. “As ever, that is all we can do for many things. Nonetheless, good work, Fakir.”

“Thank you, Charon,” Fakir answered and began to rise from his seat. “Hopefully this new detail about the suspect will prove useful for the case.”

Charon blinked, then chuckled, confusing Fakir. “Oh, I wasn’t referring to the new detail you got from that boy. What I meant was…” Here Charon paused and sighed softly. “You’ve changed, Fakir.”

Furrowing his brows, the dark-haired detective looked quizzingly at his mentor. “What do you mean?”

Motioning for Fakir to sit, the captain smiled wistfully at the baffled young man before him. “You took the time to talk to a boy who was upset over his father’s death and was headed down a dark path, and set him back on the straight and narrow. It may sound a bit harsh, but I believe that is something the old you, just a year prior, would never have taken the time to do.”

Fakir shifted in his chair, feeling at once uneasy and embarrassed. For the second time that day, the detective was left at a loss for words. “It’s…part of my duty,” he answered simply.

Charon closed his eyes, and with a fatherly smile on his lips, nodded. “It is our duty to protect and serve the people, but today you’ve gone above and beyond that. You’ve grown, Fakir, and dare I say, have changed for the better.” 

Fakir did not know what to say in response to this unexpected praise from Charon. Muttering a hurried thanks, Fakir left the captain’s office.

Yet the effect of Charon’s words lingered. As he went about the remainder of his day, Fakir found himself making his way through his tasks with a renewed sense of focus and vigor. By the time the clock was a quarter to five, Fakir had finished most of the paperwork for the day.

Not willing to let an opportunity to walk Duck home slip by, Fakir stuffed the last few pieces of notes and documents into a manila envelope to finish them at home. With envelope in hand, he left the precinct and made his way to C Street.

As he neared the Kotin Pointe Shoe Shop, Fakir paused to look for any children out and about, especially one particularly noisy child with mint-green hair. Finding the coast clear this time, he peered into the store. Inside, he saw that Duck and her coworkers were in the process of closing up the shop.

As he stood watching, Lillie began walking towards the door with a dustpan and broom in hand. Having no desire to face Duck’s loquacious friend again any time soon, Fakir quickly turned around and looked for someplace to hide. Seeing the shop next door was still open, without thinking, Fakir ducked in just as Lillie opened the door of the pointe shoe shop to empty the dustpan on the curbside.

Fakir took a deep breath at the close call, then blinked as he realized the shop he had stepped into was none other than the Stein Jewelry Store. Scanning the shop for a small, chatty child, Fakir snapped around when a quiet voice behind him said, “Zurab is napping upstairs right now.”

Fakir’s eyes came to rest on Edel, who sat with a small book in her lap behind a counter at the far end of the shop. Catching the shop owner’s enigmatic smile, Fakir cleared his throat awkwardly, before giving a noncommittal nod. 

Looking back through the shop door’s glass pane, Fakir saw Duck was now helping Lillie with the cleaning, and it did not look like any of the girls were ready to leave for the day just yet. _Guess I’ll just have to wait here for a little longer, then._

Fakir glanced around the interior of the store, shuffling the manila envelope in his hand. Though he had walked past Edel’s store a number of times in the past year, this was the first time he’d actually stepped inside her shop. Small crystal lamps hung from the ceiling, while dark wood display cabinets filled with neatly arranged trinkets and jewelry were organized in an arc around the front entrance. 

Idly, Fakir perused the displays around him, his shoes whispering on the solid wood floorboards. Unlike other jewelry stores, the items in each cabinet were an eclectic mix of styles, shapes, and prices. A deep green jadeite bracelet from Asia was paired next to an austere silver and emerald Victorian ring, which in turn rested next to a fanciful art nouveau necklace studded with small cuts of olive-colored peridot. The only overarching theme, Fakir realized, was that the items appeared to be arranged by color and hue, like a rainbow that spanned one end of the room to the other.

Fakir’s eyes crossed the gallery and his eyes alighted on a case which held the various crimson and vermilion shaded jewels. Beyond the rubies, garnets, and topazes that vied for one’s attention, Fakir’s gaze paused on a simple oval pendant. The stone’s color was a vivid blood-red, but its lucent quality lent it a brightness and warmth that reminded Fakir of the setting sun.

His mind drifted to another crimson pendant, one that Duck had worn the night they attended the opera together, which Fakir later learned had belonged to Duck’s late mother. It was a beautifully crafted piece, and though Duck did not consider it hers to wear, Fakir thought it suited her well, as it had her mother before her.

“That pendant is made from carnelian, a stone that symbolizes courage and hope.”

Fakir jerked back and found Edel standing calmly on the other side of the display case. “Um, I-I was just…” Fakir stammered, but Edel opened the back of the display case and deftly took out the pendant from its box. Laying it in her palm, she held it over the glass case and Fakir could see that the stone was fastened at one end with a polished brass chain.

Edel watched as Fakir examined the necklace, then asked softly, “Would you like to hold it?” 

Before Fakir could answer, the shop owner held out the necklace to him and Fakir allowed her to gently lower the pendant onto his outstretched palm. Unsure of what he ought to do with the object now in his hands, Fakir gingerly picked up the stone between his thumb and index finger, and was surprised by how cool and soothing it felt to the touch despite the warm glow it gave off.

The aura of this necklace rekindled a memory from some months ago, as Fakir and Duck were about to set out on their way back from Chicago. As they waited to board their carriage, the train conductor who was checking their ticket looked at them quizzingly. 

“No luggage or suitcases, sir, miss?”

Fakir and Duck had looked at each other. Given the way they’d each arrived in the city, the two of them only had the clothes on their back and some scant belongings in their coat pockets.

“No,” Fakir responded curtly and plucked the tickets from the conductor’s hands. Duck smiled apologetically at the man as they entered their carriage.

Once they’ve found their seats, Duck sat down and chided her companion, “You didn’t have to be so rude to that man, Fakir!”

“He’s the sort of person who wants to be tipped for moving bags for people. He only asked us that because he realized he can’t make any money off of us,” Fakir replied gruffly as he removed his coat.

Duck sighed loudly in exasperation and let the matter drop. But the subject at hand reminded Fakir of something, and after taking his seat next to Duck, he said to her, “Speaking of luggage, did you ever receive the box of your mother’s belongings?”

The topic startled Duck, who stammered for a moment before she said, “Huh? Oh! Um, yes…I did…”

“That’s good,” Fakir turned his blushing face away from Duck and pretended to inspect their train tickets. “The people packing your belongs didn’t look very reliable, so I asked the Marshalls to give those items to you personally, since they’re important to you. I’m guessing they’re with the rest of your belongings, then?” 

With his head turned away from her, Fakir did not see the pensive look in Duck’s eyes resulting from his question. “Um…actually…” Duck paused, as her dark-haired neighbor finally noticed the hesitation in her voice and turned his face back towards her. “I had the pendant with me, but…I lost it at some point during my time in Chicago. It must’ve fallen out of my pocket, or I misplaced it or something…” Duck finished weakly.

Fakir’s eyes widened, speechless for a moment, before he muttered, “Is that so…That’s too bad, then.”

“Yeah…” Duck nodded. From her sad but thoughtful expression at the time, Fakir wondered if Duck was still processing the loss of such a precious object.

The thought of getting her another pendant had crossed his mind, but Fakir knew it would be impossible to replace a deeply sentimental item like that. Still, as he stood holding the simple but sublime carnelian pendant in his hand, Fakir wondered if a new pendant, if only a little, would help Duck to move on from her feelings of loss.

Across from him, Edel watched as Fakir silently contemplated his thoughts. “A long, long time ago,” the pale shopkeeper began, “carnelian stones were worn as amulets by warriors to give them courage and resolve. Its color also resembles the sun, and it is said wearing such a stone facilitates new beginnings and fuels hope in the hearts of men.” 

“A new beginning…” Fakir repeated softly, his fingers stroking the stone. Though he had never been one for mysticism or any of the hocus-pocus spiel people now were so fond of, a small part of him wondered if it would not hurt to entrust some of his hopes to this stone.

But before Fakir could contemplate his thoughts any further, a familiar figure outside the jewelry shop window made Fakir look up. It was Duck, completely oblivious to his presence in Edel’s shop, waving goodbye to her friend, before proceeding to walk away.

Hurriedly turning back to Edel, Fakir began to hand the pendant back to her as he blurted out, “I need to go! Can you—”

“I will keep it in the backroom for you,” Edel said simply with a knowing smile.

Giving the shopkeeper a quick nod of gratitude, Fakir pulled open the shop door, and after quickly checking to make sure Duck’s friends were not nearby, rushed to catch up with Duck down the street.

Hearing hurried footsteps behind her, Duck spun around and her blue eyes grew wide with surprise when she saw who it was. “Oh! Fakir!” The unexpected sight of her neighbor sent a flutter through Duck’s stomach and her pulse quickened.

It had been a few days since Pique’s teasing had opened Duck’s eyes to the possibility that her stoic friend and neighbor might harbor romantic feelings for her, but in that time, Duck was no closer to diagnosing the nature of her own feelings.

Luckily for her, Fakir’s frenetic work schedule and subsequent continued absences allowed her to push the thought to the back of her mind as she went about her daily tasks. But now, with him suddenly standing in front of her again, Duck found herself unsure of what to say or how to act.

_For heaven’s sakes, it’s not like anything has changed between us!_ Duck told herself sternly as Fakir seemed to notice her uncharacteristically quiet manners. _Just act the way you usually do around him!_

Pushing a smile to her face, Duck did her best to not let the quiver in her chest show, but it was to no avail, as Fakir watched her closely after taking notice of the slight tremor in her voice. “Er, you managed to leave early today? Have things slowed down a bit at the precinct, then?”

“I still have a few things to get done,” Fakir held up the envelope, “But these shouldn’t take long. Overall though, things have slowed down a little in the last two weeks. It’s been mostly desk work, with a few interviews and meetings scattered here and there.

“What about you?” his eyes turned back to Duck, and the red-haired girl wished for not the last time that her neighbor wasn’t so darn perceptive. “You seem a little out of sorts today. Did something happen?”

“Um, no…not really…” Duck sputtered. She couldn’t very well tell him she thought he had a crush on her—not if she didn’t want to die from sheer embarrassment, of course!

_Still, it would be nice to know one way or another,_ Duck thought bashfully, but the idea of an open confession reminded her of something else. 

“Actually, something interesting did happen!” Duck’s words made Fakir’s brows shoot up in alarm, but any concern he might have held back was dispelled by her next sentence. “My employer, Mr. Kotin, now has a girlfriend!”

The clouds masking Duck’s expression cleared somewhat as she recalled the look of profound joy and happiness on the mustachioed man’s face when he came into the shop the day after his evening with destiny.

Smiling now, Duck continued, “He’d been head-over-heels for a lady named Anna Belykh, and over dinner last week, he confessed his feelings to her. Turns out she also likes him, so she reciprocates his feelings! We were all on tenterhooks for him, because if she’d rejected him, I’m sure his heart would’ve been completely broken!”

“Oh…well, good for him,” the detective mumbled. As much as he was glad this “interesting event” was nothing more hazardous than the romantic endeavors of Duck’s employer, Fakir found himself feeling a pang of envy for the man’s fortune in love.

With a shrug of annoyance, Fakir pushed those thoughts aside. The motion of Duck’s swaying braid caught the detective’s eye and he said to her, “I remember your friends were talking about getting new haircuts for your birthday. Are you going through with it?”

Duck’s lips twisted into a pensive frown as they crossed a street, walking side-by-side. “Me? I don’t think I will, to be honest. I’ve always had long hair, and I have fond memories of Ma brushing my hair before school each morning. The thought of cutting it all off makes me feel sad and uneasy. But Pique and Lillie are really excited about getting new hairdos, so I’m certain they will go through with it.” Maybe it was the comfort of an old routine as they traced a familiar path home, but Duck found herself feeling more at ease and less self-conscious the longer she spoke with Fakir.

The questions and uncertainties that had nagged at her receded into the background, and though her heartbeat still fluttered in her chest, there was now a happy excitement in her voice as she recounted, “Pique asked around, but all of the hair salons around here refused to cut bobbed hair. But Lillie came up with the idea to ask the local barber shops if they would be willing to do it instead! 

“The way she went about it was quite ingenious, too! She’d found a card printed with pictures of bob haircut styles, and this past weekend showed it to all of the neighboring barbershops until she found a barber who was willing to give it a go. She and Pique were so excited, they spent all of yesterday and part of today discussing which hairstyle they should get!”*

“I don’t see why she had to go to such lengths, though. I mean,” Fakir paused to rephrase his comment, “it’s just a haircut. I don’t understand why some people are so upset over how other people wear their hair. Honestly, it’s none of their business.”

“Mmm,” Duck touched her lips thoughtfully, “Long hair has been the norm for girls for as long as anyone can remember, right? So, I guess for a lot of people it’s unexpected and shocking to see women with really short hair.”

Duck’s blue eyes drifted back to Fakir and to his own lengthy hair. “What about you, Fakir? To be honest, I was really surprised when I realized you were a cop, because I’d never seen a cop—or any man, actually—with long hair before,” she said sheepishly. “Did anyone ever give you grief over your hair?”

Fakir groaned as they climbed the stairs of the tenement building towards the floor they shared with one another. “Yeah, when I first joined up, there were a few senior officers who took issues with my appearance. But lucky for me, Charon openly expressed his desire for me to join the force, and that seemed to shut them up, publicly at least. Most of those old fogies have since retired, and even if someone still had a problem with it, it doesn’t matter to me.”

Touching the base of his ponytail, Fakir scowled, “But during the summer when it’s hot and humid, it can be a real nuisance. At night especially, it’s like having a Persian cat curled up around your neck when you sleep.”

This description drew a burst of laughter from Duck as they stopped in front of their respective apartment doors. “I know the feeling! When I try to turn around in bed and end up pulling on my hair, that’s when I know I need to dig out the scissors and trim my hair. Even so, I can’t imagine myself with short hair,” Duck lightly stroked her braid. “Pique and Lillie will probably tease me for keeping my hair, especially since the whole idea was to do something special for my birthday!”

Next to her, Fakir shrugged, “Short hair isn’t for everyone. You shouldn’t force yourself to do something you’re not comfortable with.”

Hearing this, Duck smiled a little. “I know…” she said, turning to him. “But you know, Fakir,” Duck paused as she regarded his features, “I think _you_ would look really good with short hair! It would suit you!”

This unexpected statement sent a wave of heat up Fakir’s face as his face rapidly turned red. Remarkably, for the third time that day, the detective found himself at a loss for what to say.

Seeing his wide-eyed reaction, it was only then that the implications of her words dawned on Duck. _Oh, no! Why did I say that?! He’s going to think I’m being weird—or worse, that I’m being rude!_ she thought in a panic as her heart pounded.

Waving her hands frantically around, she sputtered, “S-Sorry! N-Never mind what I just said! You look fine the way you are now! Really!” 

“It’s fine, idiot…” Fakir managed to find his voice and mumbled quietly, “…there’s nothing to apologize for.” 

Duck’s hands stopped their frenetic movement and she blinked at him, watching his expression carefully. “R-Really?” Her gaze dropped down to stare at the worn wooden floor. “That’s good…”

As an awkward silence descended between them, Fakir turned away and busied himself with unlocking his apartment door. Before opening his door, he stole a glance at Duck and found her still standing with her hands clutched worriedly in front of her chest.

Maybe it was his imagination, but ever since the last time they spoke in front of the Kotin Pointe Shoe Shop a few days ago, Duck seemed to be behaving a little differently around him. She was stuttering far more than usual, which Fakir had learned was a sure sign she was flustered.

But why would she become flustered around him all of a sudden? It wasn’t as though anything had changed between them.

…Or had it?

The corner of Fakir’s lips tugged downward at that thought. _You’re reading too much into this,_ he chastised himself.

Deciding Duck’s change in behavior was most likely due to being stressed by this whole hair affair, Fakir cleared his throat loudly, which succeeded in getting Duck’s attention. “Just because everyone else is doing something doesn’t mean you have to fall in line too, Duck,” he said, and watched as the girl’s eyes timidly met his.

The uncharacteristic shyness in her eyes made his stomach flutter, but Fakir pressed on and continued evenly, “I think you look fine the way you are. It doesn’t matter what other people do or think; do what you feel is right.” 

Feeling the rush of heat from earlier creeping up his shirt collar again, Fakir knew he couldn’t maintain his calm and collected façade in front of Duck for much longer. Turning around sharply, he hurriedly said, “Um, that’s my opinion anyway…goodnight, then.” 

Duck opened her mouth to speak, but by then Fakir’s door had closed. Sighing softly, she dug into her purse for her key, but as she stepped inside her apartment, Duck found that the pressure inside her chest had eased and she felt calmer than before.

Even though there were still many questions floating around in her head, Fakir’s reassurance had helped to calm some of her anxieties. This would’ve been unthinkable less than a year ago, when Fakir first bulldozed his way into her life.

_It’s funny that the reason I’m so flustered is because of Fakir, but he’s the one who ends up reassuring me_ , Duck sighed at the irony of the situation she had found herself in.

But as inexplicable as all this was, Duck found herself smiling once again. _I’ll have to break the news to Pique and Lillie tomorrow. I just hope they won’t be too disappointed that I’m not cutting my hair…_

* * *

The rapid “ta-ta-ta-ta” sound of the typewriter fell silent as Fakir leaned back and stretched his arms above his head.

Outside, the summer sun hanging low on the horizon as a lazy breeze drifted in through the open window, carrying with it the sound of lively jazz music. Hearing the slight crackle in the melody, Fakir briefly wondered if one of the neighbors had recently purchased a new radio before turning his attention back to the rolled sheet of paper on his Smith Corona typewriter. 

Hitting the return lever, Fakir reread the last sentence he’d transcribed. Satisfied, he twisted the platen knob to release the transcript and placed the sheet of paper at the top of a stack of finished documents.

_These will be ready for Charon to review tomorrow_ , Fakir thought as he stood up and straightened the pile into an orderly stack before putting them into the manila envelope along with the original handwritten notes. His work done for the day, the detective sighed and massaged his sore shoulders.

As the upbeat jazz music continued to waft in, Fakir walked up to the window and leaned against the sill. Lighting another cigarette, he puffed it a few times before settling in to enjoy a quiet moment of repose on an otherwise hectic day.

With the cigarette on his lips, and a free hand tapping lightly to the beat of the music, Fakir shifted his mind from police paperwork to his fellow policemen as he recalled the unexpected praise from Charon and Alex earlier today.

_You are a good man, Sarge._

_You’ve grown, Fakir, and dare I say, have changed for the better._

Above him, the first pinpricks of starlight in the evening sky appeared. Scarcely a year ago, Fakir doubted he would have had the leisure to sit around and indulge in self-introspection, as his mind was wholly consumed by the Corvo case. Like a bloodhound, he was always on the lookout for new leads and burying his nose in his work, with nary a thought for anything else.

But meeting Duck had changed all that. Fakir’s green eyes turned from the heavens above to the earthly domain of his neighbor’s window. Though her curtains were drawn, a soft, fond gaze nevertheless found its way to Fakir’s eyes.

In the distance, the last rays of sunlight lit a fading corner of the sky a fiery red. The rich vermillion hue called to mind the pendant Fakir saw earlier today.

_That pendant is made from carnelian, a stone that symbolizes courage and hope…_

Fakir’s expression sobered as he rubbed at his neck, the tips of his fingers touching an edge of the scar tissue that covered his back.

Though those hideous scars would be with him forever, Fakir reminded himself he had made the conscious decision to stop letting his painful memories cloud his thoughts and color his judgment. His conversation with Eddie today was a small step forward in that direction. Though Fakir does not know what lies ahead, a small crimson light inside of him guided and reassured him that that future will be brighter than the dark past that he had left behind.

As the music on the wind faded, the now silent breeze caressed Fakir’s skin, shifting stray strands of hair from his bangs onto his face. Lifting his hand from his scar, Fakir brushed his hair aside, and as his fingers ran down the length of his ponytail, Duck’s voice from earlier that day came to mind.

_I think you’d look really good with short hair! It would suit you!_

Fakir’s hand let go of his hair before he left the window. Setting aside the cigarette, he found the shaving mirror and undid the tie that held his hair back. Fakir then ran both hands down the length of his hair, pulling them back as much as possible. With a hand holding down his hair, Fakir picked up the mirror and examined his reflection.

Tilting his head to the left, then to the right, he wondered if this was would he would look like if he had shorter hair. Though pulling his hair back wasn’t a perfect facsimile for short hair, Fakir could see himself looking sharper, and probably more authoritative as well.

_Maybe then kids like Eddie and Zurab will actually show some respect,_ Fakir thought sardonically.

Loosening his grip, Fakir contemplated the long ebony locks that fell over his shoulders. Much like Duck, who’d worn her hair at its current length since childhood, Fakir had worn his hair long since his parents’ death. Unlike Duck, whose long, auburn tresses served as a cherished connection to her mother, Fakir’s hair was a cover for the scars he carried, a shield to keep the world from prying and pitying him almost literally behind his back.

But like so many aspects of his past, those whispered gossip and words of pity were behind him now, too. Perhaps the best way to make a clean break with the past was with a physical change, one that Fakir had control over—and with Duck’s unexpected reassurance, one that he now felt comfortable initiating. 

His mind made up, Fakir wondered what Duck’s reaction would be when she saw him next, humming a chord of jazz he had heard on the wind with a small, impish grin on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *“Sharper” as a noun means someone who is a shrewd swindler.
> 
> *Tommy Gagliano was a real-life New York City gangster active in the Bronx in the first half of the 20th century. He was a member of the Lucchese crime family, which was established in the 1920’s by the Sicilian-born gangster, Gaetano Reina. The Lucchese family was infamously involved in heroin smuggling via the French Connection (a scheme which later gave its name to the synonymous book and movie) from the 1930’s to the 1970’s. Many Lucchese members were arrested in the 1990’s and 2000’s but the gang is still very much active in the present day. 
> 
> *It’s a bit unimaginable nowadays that a hairdresser would refuse to cut a female customer’s hair, but in the 1920s, having short bobbed hair was considered very shocking, even scandalous. Some hairdressers refused to cut it because of a personal moral principle, while others refused because they were not used to cutting hair that short and simply didn’t trust themselves to do a good job. As such, many flappers turned to barbers, who were far more familiar and comfortable cutting short hair for their bobbed cuts. But barbers, who traditionally catered to a male clientele, were initially at a loss for the numerous unfamiliar hairstyles requested by the influx of female clients. In response to this, the National Hairdressers’ Association released a printed card in 1924 with different bobbed hair styles for women to take to their barber. The title of the card is the somewhat exasperated sounding, “If you Must Do It Show This to Your Barber”. 
> 
> I know Fakir smokes like a chimney in this fic, but this was not unusual for men in the 1920s. In that era the per person consumption of cigarettes among adults was around 1,000 a year. By the 1963 this number was 4,345 a year, and more than half of all men and about a third of all women in the United States smoked. We now know that smoking is terrible for your health (and I say this as someone whose uncle underwent triple bypass surgery after having smoked for most of his adult life), but the health risks were not known back in the early part of the 20th century when smoking was very much a part of popular culture. 
> 
> As ever, a big “Thank you!” to Tomoyo Ichijouji for her assistance proofreading and editing this story!


	4. Chapter 4

“Good morning!” Duck called out as the shop door closed behind her.

Expecting a familiar greeting from her friends, Duck was surprised to find herself alone with Mr. Kotin in the store. “Are Pique and Lillie not in yet?”

Leaning back in his chair, Mr. Kotin looked out from behind the open door of his office. “Not yet, Miss Duck.”

Normally such a statement would have been spoken by her employer with an unmistakable tone of exasperation, but that tone was noticeably absent today, and Mr. Kotin seemed almost upbeat despite most of his employees being tardy.

 _He’s been in such a good mood since becoming an item with Miss Anna Belykh,_ Duck smiled as she put away her things.

But Duck didn’t have to wait long for her coworkers to arrive. The shop door tinkled a minute later, and Duck clasped her hands together with delight when her friends stepped in as they removed their hats. “Oh! You look great, Lillie, Pique!”

Pique had traded her prim bun for a boyish, angular bob that accentuated her cheekbones. Lillie, on the other hand, had swapped her twin pigtails for short, dramatic curls that were clearly modeled after the hairstyle of the Hollywood film star, Clara Bow.

Expecting her friends to respond with gleeful excitement, Duck was surprised when she was greeted with a matching set of deep sighs instead. “What’s wrong?” Duck wondered as Lillie and Pique sulked over to the counter.

“We’re grounded!” Pique slumped into a chair, the sharp fringes of her hair swaying as she sat down. “My mom had an absolute _fit_ yesterday after I came home from the barber!” 

To Pique’s right, Lillie cupped her face and wailed, “Me too! Oh, it was such a killjoy, Duck! There we were, all dolled up after our appointment, and what does my mother say? ‘An offense against God’, she proclaimed, and faints on the couch! My poor father had to get the smelling salt to rouse her! As soon as my mother came to, they went straight to church to ask the priest to forgive me for my sin!”

Duck’s mouth hung open, aghast. “Oh my gosh!” she managed to say after a long pause. “I didn’t think they would react so strongly!”

“Neither did I!” Resting her elbows on her knees, Pique puffed up her cheeks indignantly in a manner unbefitting of her stylish appearance. “Since business at the shop has been slow, my parents think I have too much free time on my hands and am being distracted by ‘silly and frivolous ideas’ in magazines,” the young woman said, intoning a mocking imitation of her mother’s voice. “They’re now banning magazines from the house, and are insisting I find more ‘gainful employment’ where I’m kept busy with work instead!”

Hearing this, Duck only grew more concerned. “Do they want you to quit, then?”

“I don’t know…we’ll see.” Pique heaved another deep sigh and stood up from her seat as Mr. Kotin, hearing their chatter, approached them from his office. “I like it here and I don’t plan on leaving if I can help it, but in the same measure, I also can’t just ignore my parents, either.”

“What is this commotion I hear?” Mr. Kotin’s eyes opened wide when he saw the new haircuts of his employees. “My! Miss Pique, Miss Lillie! That is _quite_ the transformation you’ve undergone!”

 _Oh no! Now Mr. Kotin is mad at them too!_ Trying to draw attention away from her friends, Duck said, “Please don’t be angry with them, Mr. Kotin! I’m partly to blame for this—!”

“Duck!” Lillie and Pique exclaimed in unison indignantly. Spinning around sharply on her heels, Pique placed her hand on her chest and declared, “This was all _my_ idea! It has nothing to do with Duck!”

“Now, now.” Holding his palms up, Mr. Kotin placated them with the words, “Contrary to your assumptions, ladies, I have no issues with your appearance. After all, my dearest Miss Anna, Venus of my heart, wears her hair in a similar fashion.”

The girls looked at one another and the tension instantly diffused from the room. “Oh…Th-Thank you, sir…” Pique mumbled, embarrassed by her earlier outburst.

With a gentle smile, Mr. Kotin cleared his throat. “So long as your attend to your duties as you’ve done so in the past, the length and style of your hair is irrelevant to me. Now, without further ado,” he motioned once again to the broom closet, “Let us not tarry from said tasks!”

Instead of the usual groans, the girls found themselves smiling this time instead.

Once they had dutifully finished their chores, the trio settled in for another uneventful and quiet day at the shop. Mr. Kotin left at noon to join Miss Belykh for lunch and left the running of the shop to the girls. But save for one or two brief visitors, the girls were left to themselves as they spent the majority of their day sitting at the counter, discussing the consequences of Pique and Lillie’s chic but shocking change in appearance. 

When the clock finally struck five, the girls’ conversations came to a temporary pause. Stretching her arms, Pique sighed as she stood up from her seat. “I have to be home by six for my curfew. Maybe if I can keep this up for a few weeks, my folks will eventually forget about the whole thing and I can stay out late again!”

To Duck, Pique lamented, “It was probably a good thing you decided not to get your hair cut, Duck. Having a new haircut is rather pointless if you can’t go anywhere to show it off.” 

“Er, I suppose…” Duck bit her lips thoughtfully as they gathered their belongings.

While Duck did not envy the ire her friends incurred from their families, she couldn’t help but wonder how her mother would’ve reacted, had she still been alive. Duck could recall only a handful of times when Elsa had been stern with her; her mother had otherwise been a patient and understanding parent. 

The knowledge that she would never get to know her mother’s reaction, for better or for worse, sent a bittersweet pang through Duck’s heart. _There's nothing to be done about that…_ Duck reminded herself, mentally waving the thought aside.

Turning back to Pique, Duck shifted the topic to what they had been discussing before the clock had chimed. “So, this lady your mother wants you to meet—you said she runs a secretarial school?” 

“It’s not a ‘school’, per se—more like a private tutor,” Pique explained while they filed out of the pointe shoe shop and out onto the afternoon street. “Mrs. Ryan was a Gibbs’ girl, and after she got married, decided to offer private courses out of her house. She charges far less than Gibbs does, but claims to offer training of the same standard as Gibbs.”

“But Gibbs schools are incredibly strict, aren’t they?” Lillie pouted, her new short hair and puffed cheeks giving her a baby-doll-like appearance. “I heard the old bird who owns Gibbs insists every girl attend class with white gloves and dressed in their Sunday best. It’s much too formal for me!”*

“This Ryan lady isn’t so strict…I think,” Pique answered tentatively while Duck locked up the store behind them. “At least that’s what my mom tells me. I’ll find out when I talk to her this weekend.”

Here, Pique heaved another sigh and turned to Duck. “Sorry we’re going to have to rain check the zoo trip this weekend, Duck. It’s just that I’m positive my mom would have another fit if I refused to go to this interview.”

“Same for me! My folks would sit me down in church on Sunday, and only an actual act of God would excuse me from spending the whole day in confessions with the priest,” the blonde exhaled mournfully as the mere thought of it sapped all of her energy.

Duck smiled understandingly and waved it off. Commiserating, she said, “Don’t worry about it! We can reschedule it for a different day…”

The light patter of a pair of small feet made Duck pause in the middle of her sentence. With the little drum bobbing in time with the toddler’s footsteps, Zurab came to a stop next to Duck and said breathlessly with barely-contained excitement, “Dieda told Zurab to not bother Duck when Duck is working, zura, but is Duck done working now? When are we going to go see der elefanten, zura?”

 _Oh no, I almost forgot about Zurab!_ Duck grimaced. With her friends watching her apprehensively, Duck bent down and said to the child, “Sorry, Zurab, but Pique and Lillie can’t come on Sunday. They, er… something came up.”

“Oh,” Zurab looked at Duck’s friends, then back to Duck. “But what about Duck? Can Duck come with Zurab, zura?”

Knowing how much the child was looking forward to this trip, Duck could not bring herself to say no. With her mind made up, she cast a brief apologetic glance at her friends, and replied, “…Yes, we’ll go see the elephants. But it’ll just be the two of us.”

“Yay!” the mint-haired child cheered, completely oblivious of the gloom hanging over the girls, and began to sing, “Zurab is going to see der elefanten, der elefanten, der elefanten!” As Zurab twirled around, a figure dodged behind the corner of the Kotin Pointe Shoe Shop, catching the toddler’s eyes.

Walking over, Zurab stared hard at the hidden figure, before exclaiming a long, “Ohhh…”

“Shhh!” the voice from behind the corner shushed and tried to duck even closer into the brickwork.

But it was to no avail, as Zurab loudly announced to the entire neighborhood, “It’s Fakir but not Fakir, zura!”

“What?” Pique frowned while the others looked just as bewildered by this paradoxical statement. Seeing he had been outed by the toddler once again, the figure exhaled resignedly and walked into view.

Even though Duck knew it was impolite to stare, it was the only thing she _could_ do when she beheld her neighbor—initially with confusion, which turned quickly into amazement.

With his fedora on, the transformation was not immediately obvious at first sight, but as Fakir turned to rub awkwardly at his neck, Duck’s eyes opened wide.

“Auwgh?!” A very unladylike squawk escaped Duck’s throat, and she rushed to cover her mouth with her hand when she realized what she was seeing… or rather, _not_ seeing.

His trademark ponytail was gone, and his long unruly bangs were now neatly trimmed. It was no wonder Zurab took a long, hard look at Fakir as he was now; were it not for his eyes and familiar grumpy expression, Duck was sure she would not have recognized him at all!

 _Why did Fakir cut his hair!? Was it because of what I said?_

But even as Duck tried to wrap her head around the sudden transformation, her eyes took note of how Fakir’s new haircut accentuated his sharp jawline and deep emerald eyes, features that used to be partially hidden by his long bangs and distracting ponytail. Her hand still covering her mouth, Duck darted her eyes away as her cheeks began to flush involuntarily. 

_I was just thinking aloud that day, but short hair really does suit him…_

Across from her, Fakir shifted uncomfortably. He had hoped to stay out of sight and catch up to Duck after she and her friends had parted ways for the day, but Zurab’s presence had sabotaged his plans yet again.

Matters were not helped when Pique and Lillie, barely able to contain themselves from this unexpected sight, squealed at the top of their lungs.

“Oh my! It’s like seeing Rudolph Valentino in the flesh!” Lillie gushed, her hands clutched to her chest. “He really _is_ the Sheik!”

“And here I thought _we_ were getting a dramatic transformation! It seems we’ve been upstaged!” Pique edged up to Fakir with a toothy grin. “So why the sudden change?” Wiggling her thin eyebrows, her grin grew wider. “Are you trying to impress a certain someone?” she said with a tilt of the head towards Duck and watched in unconcealed glee as her friend’s cheeks beneath her hands matched her auburn trusses.

Stubbornly maintaining his hard-boiled facade, Fakir responded curtly, “It’s been exceptionally warm and humid this summer, and the long hair was becoming a nuisance, so I decided it was time for it to go.”

“Oh really?” Pique continued to wiggle her eyebrows at Fakir, now joined by Lillie, much to Duck’s mortification and the detective’s annoyance.

Luckily for the mortified shop girl, Edel exited her shop at that moment and called to Zurab, “Zurab, come, it’s almost supper time.”

“Coming!” Zurab exclaimed. Before turning to leave, the toddler waved one more time at Duck and grinned, “Zurab will wait for Duck, zura! Come early, zura!”

Removing her hand from her mouth, Duck quickly waved back, “I-I will! See you on Sunday, Zurab!” 

As the child waddled back to Edel’s shop, Pique and Lillie also seemed to recall the time and their expressions became subdued.

“Darn, we should get going too! Mother is expecting me back in half an hour, or else I’m going to get another ear-full!” Pique bemoaned, before she and Lillie reluctantly turned their feet toward the opposite direction. “I’ll see you next week, Duck, and happy birthday!”

Still flushed, Duck smiled back a little timidly, “Thank you…and see you both next week!”

With her friends and Zurab having now dispersed, Duck breathed in a deep sigh of relief. But scarcely before Duck could catch her next breath, Fakir said to her, “That little girl is coming with you to the zoo?”

Duck started involuntarily, and she turned her blue eyes back to Fakir. The stoic expression on his face had eased a fraction, and under Duck’s gaze, the blush that Fakir had managed to keep at bay began to creep back onto his cheeks. Turning away, lest Duck would notice, Fakir began walking home as his neighbor followed suit beside him. 

“Um, yeah…we were all supposed to go on Sunday, but Pique and Lillie’s parents were really upset about them getting their hair cut and grounded them. Zurab wants to come as well, but it wouldn’t be fair to her to cancel the trip when I know she had been looking forward to it all week.”

Fakir said nothing as they came to a crosswalk. Waiting in silence for the light to change, he said unexpectedly, “If your friends can’t go, I can come along instead.” 

Duck spun around at this unexpected offer, her eyes opened wide. “Eh?! But why?”

“Because,” Fakir paused to clear his throat, and trying to sound nonchalant, told her, “That kid looks to be a handful. It’s going to be hard for one person to keep up with a precocious child like her. I have this weekend off, and I don’t have any plans anyway.”

Duck considered this offer as she looked down at the pavement. Beside her, Fakir watched for her response from the corner of his eyes, then pretended to look away when she finally shifted her gaze back to him. “Are you sure, though? You’ve been so busy lately…you should get some rest instead.”

Hearing the genuine concern in Duck’s voice, Fakir’s detached façade melted a little, and he said more softly, “Don’t worry about it; I don’t mind.”

“Oh, okay then. Thanks…” Duck trailed off with a grateful smile as they continued the rest of their journey home.

As they walked in companionable silence, the familiar routine unexpectedly roused a question in Duck’s mind. _Fakir has been coming to walk me home an awful lot lately…_

Duck pondered as she snuck a sideways glance at Fakir, who appeared relaxed as he looked out ahead. _He originally started this to make sure I wasn’t being followed by the Corvos…_

A small shudder went up Duck’s spine as haunting memories came to mind of the men who attacked her and Fakir in an alley not far from where she stood. _Is something wrong that Fakir is keeping an eye on me again?_ Duck grimaced.

As she pondered whether or not to voice her concerns to him, the two of them arrived in front of their apartment doors.

Seeing Fakir unperturbed and showing no signs of being on guard as he took out his key to unlock his door, Duck’s brows furrowed even deeper despite feeling reassured of her safety. 

_Maybe I’m thinking too much,_ Duck told herself. _After all, the Corvos are gone…right?_

* * *

On the morning of August 16th, Duck found herself standing with Fakir and a wide-eyed Zurab in front of the marble Rockefeller Fountain in the heart of the Bronx Zoo. Speaking over the chatter of families and children around them, Duck crouched down and held out a paper map to the toddler.

“Where would you like to go first, Zurab?”

“Here, zura!” Zurab pointed to a picture of a tiger. “Here, too!” A finger flew to the monkey house. “And here, and here, and here, zura!” The toddler pointed enthusiastically to every location on the map, making Duck laugh.

“Okay, let’s do this one at a time. How about we go see the elephants first? You’ve never seen one before, right?”

“Der elefanten! We see the elephants, zura!” Zurab shouted happily and toddled ahead while Duck and Fakir followed, walking side-by-side.

“I’ve never seen a child with this much energy before,” Fakir smirked. “You’d think she’s one of those dancing wind-up toys with how animated she gets.” 

“It’s Zurab’s first trip to the zoo,” Duck rejoined in Zurab’s defense. “It’s no wonder she would be excited!”

Fakir shrugged nonchalantly in response, all the while making sure the child didn’t wander too far out of sight. “Kids can get into all kinds of trouble if you’re not mindful of what they’re up to. At least with the both of us, there’s two people to keep an eye on her.”

Hearing this, Duck recalled her thoughts from the day before. After a moment of hesitation, she said softly, “I’ve actually been meaning to ask you, Fakir…you’ve been coming over to the shop more frequently lately. Is everything okay?” 

Startled by her question, Fakir darted his eyes toward Duck, before he responded in a measured tone, “Everything’s fine…Why do you ask?”

Duck pursed her lips, her hands twisting uneasily together. Lowering her voice to a whisper, she confided, “It probably sounds silly, but it’s just that it reminds me of back when you would constantly keep an eye on me in case _those people_ found out about me. It’s just a little unsettling…”

The alarm in Duck’s dithering voice pushed Fakir’s brows together. He opened his mouth, wanting to be frank with her, but snapped it shut before any words could leave his tongue. _  
_

_The rumor of Autor’s mystery Corvo man is nothing more substantial than a whisper on the wind right now,_ the detective reminded himself. _It’s not worth upsetting her over something like this when she has endured so such fear and uncertainty already._

Despite his unease, Fakir explained, “I’ve always taken C Street on my way to and from home; it’s just that you haven’t been seeing much of me because of how busy the summer has been. With the weather cooling down, things have slowed down a bit, and I don’t have to stay as late. That’s why you’ve been seeing more of me lately.”

Fakir watched Duck’s expression as she processed his not-entirely-truthful explanation, and exhaled the breath he had been holding when the furrow in Duck’s brows eased.

“That’s what I thought!” She let out a visible sigh of relief before scratching her head, abashed. “I knew I was thinking too much!”

Up ahead, Zurab waved back at them, standing next to the metal bars of the elephant pen. “Duck! Come quick, zura! Baby elephant, zura!”

With a quick “coming!”, the red-haired girl turned to Fakir, her smile beaming. “You’ve been working really hard lately, Fakir, so I’ll do my part to watch Zurab. You should enjoy yourself today!”

Before Fakir could formulate a response, Duck had already dashed off to catch up with Zurab.

 _Idiot._ The corners of Fakir’s lips tugged downward as he sulked. Reaching into his jacket, Fakir pawed at the little jewelry box nestled inside the pocket. _It’s_ your _birthday today. I should be the one saying that to you._

Retreating under the boughs of a nearby sycamore tree, Fakir watched as Duck and Zurab coo over the baby elephant along with the rest of the crowd that had gathered around the pen. After scanning the people around Duck and finding none to be suspicious, Fakir relaxed a fraction, but his green eyes remained ever vigilant as people streamed by.

As much as Fakir did not wish to alarm Duck with the rumors he had heard, he couldn't dismiss them so easily on his part, especially since the Corvos had previously attempted to kidnap Duck while she was out in public.

He had been sorely tempted to trail Duck and her friends for their zoo trip, but knowing Duck and her strong distaste for being followed—even if it was for her own safety—he decided his peace of mind was not worth the angry tirade she would surely have had in store for him, had she detected his presence. After all, there would at least have been safety in numbers if Duck had been with her friends. But that small consolation was thrown out the window when Duck’s friends suddenly were grounded and she was left to her own devices with no one else but a child in tow.

Given the circumstances, Fakir decided volunteering to accompany her was the best solution. Still, given his track record with Zurab so far and his less than stellar experience with children in general, Fakir had his reservations about taking on the role of chaperone for a whole day.

Thankfully, Zurab had so far proven to be much better behaved than Fakir had anticipated. Without needing any instructions from Duck or himself, the child held onto their hands when crossing streets and sat still (even if she chatted excitedly) on the trolley ride to the zoo.

Shifting his attention back to Duck, Fakir could tell the child’s enthusiasm was also rubbing off on the red-haired girl. The fawning expression on Duck's face as she watched the baby elephant romp around the paddock, her mouth gaping open with adoration, stirred a bout of quiet laughter from the detective.

Catching himself, Fakir coughed and cleared his throat, but the smile remained on his lips even as Duck and Zurab made their way back towards him several minutes later.

“Arf, arf! Zurab wants to see the animal that says arf!” the toddler proclaimed when asked what they should go see next.

“Arf?” Duck and Fakir looked at each other until a series of barks and splashing noises drew their attention to the sea lion pool a short distance away from where they stood.*

The trio circled back across Astor Court where a feeding session was underway at the sea lion exhibit. A large crowd had gathered, and it was already so packed with people that even Fakir could barely see anything above the sea of bobbing heads in front of them.

Undeterred, Zurab let go of Duck’s hand and raced to the foot of the crowd. Jumping up and down, the toddler tried to catch a glimpse of the action, but at barely three feet tall, Zurab couldn’t see beyond the wall of adults and older children crowding around the pool. 

Seeing the child’s predicament, without a second thought Fakir picked up the toddler and set Zurab on his shoulders, much to the latter's delight. “Fakir, I can see the ‘arf, arf!’, zura!” Zurab exclaimed, bouncing and clapping in excitement.

Behind them Duck watched with a fond smile. She had been worried that someone stern like Fakir wouldn’t have the patience to deal with the bubbly and garrulous Zurab, as their initial meeting certainly did not endear the youngster to the detective. But much to Duck’s relief, it seemed the two of them were getting along swimmingly.

 _I guess there’s more to Fakir than being grumpy and rude,_ Duck mused to herself, hiding a sheepish smile behind her hand. _But I’m glad he came; it seems like both he and Zurab are enjoying themselves_. The shop girl mused as Fakir was now intently observing the antics of the sea lions along with Zurab.

Surrounded by the sounds of laughter and happy murmurs, and buoyed by the refreshing breeze, Duck took a deep breath and closed her eyes momentarily as she allowed herself to enjoy this idyllic moment on her birthday.

_It’s such a nice day. I wish every day could be like this…_

While Duck enjoyed a peaceful moment to herself, the sea lion feeding drew to a close and the crowd began to disperse. Fakir, with Zurab still sitting on his shoulder, lingered at the pool when the child asked, “Fakir, why are they called sea lions? Do they go ‘rawr’ like lions, zura?”

Fakir considered this question for a moment. As far as he was aware, sea lions only barked, not roared, but he was no zoologist and thus didn’t have an immediate answer to Zurab’s question. Luckily for him, a keeper nearby was speaking with guests, so Fakir looked up at the child sitting on his shoulders and said, “I don’t know, but we can go ask.” 

Once the keeper had bid farewell to another group of guests, Fakir put Zurab down, who then toddled over and repeated the question to the mustachioed zoo employee. “That is a very good question!” the sandy-haired man responded enthusiastically. “The reason they’re called sea lions is because the boy sea lions tend to have thick long hair around their necks, kind of how like lions do.”

“Ohhh…” Zurab marveled, then pointed back to the pool. “But the sea lions here don’t have long hair…they have short hair, zura!” 

“Very good!” the keeper nodded appreciatively. “Actually, all of our California sea lions are girls.” To Fakir, the zookeeper beamed, “Your daughter is very observant. Most adults don’t even notice that.” 

“Uhh, no,” Fakir stammered as his cheeks colored involuntarily as Zurab looked on. Holding up his hands, Fakir explained, “She’s not mine, she’s…” Searching for a way to describe Zurab’s relationship to him, Fakir settled for, “A friend of a friend’s…niece?” 

“Oh!” The embarrassed zoo keeper covered his mouth briefly at the gaffe. “My apologies! There are a lot of families that come here, so I assumed…In any case, she’s a very smart little girl. I hope you both enjoy the rest of your day here!”

After briefly thanking the keeper, Fakir and Zurab made their way back toward Duck, who had been watching their exchange curiously. With a hop and a skip, Zurab bounded excitedly over to the red-haired girl, who knelt down to hear what the child had to say.

“Duck, Duck! Do you know why sea lions are called sea lions, zura?” Zurab asked.

When Duck shook her head, Zurab repeated what the zookeeper had said earlier to her. “I see, I didn’t know that either,” Duck replied, and was about to stand back up when Zurab tugged on her sleeve with a second question. “That man said that I’m Fakir’s daughter. What is a ‘daughter’, Duck?” 

Hearing this, Duck had to cover her mouth to keep a loud snort from exiting her throat. Skimming her eyes over to Fakir, who was looking away with his face glowing bright red, Duck could not suppress a grin.

Finding her neighbor’s embarrassed countenance oddly endearing, Duck explained to Zurab, “A daughter is a girl child. That man thought you’re Fakir’s little girl.”

“Little girl?” Zurab asked, evidently still confused. “But—”

Desperate to change the topic, a mortified Fakir interrupted them and grumbled, “C-Come on, let’s go someplace else! There’s still a lot more to see,” and began to stalk away.

“Oh! Wait for Zurab, zura!” Zurab called out and pranced ahead to keep up with Fakir. Behind them, the smile on Duck’s face lingered.

As they walked down a shaded lane, the trio came upon a group of children congregating around another zookeeper. When the three walked up to see what the fuss was about, they saw the children focusing their eyes on a prickly white and brown ball in the keeper’s gloved hand. 

Recognizing the animal, Duck asked, “Is that a hedgehog?”

The blond zookeeper nodded. “An African pygmy hedgehog, actually. We don’t have any native hedgehog species in North America, but they’re quite common in Europe and Africa.”

“Will it hurt if we touch it?” a wary-eyed little boy asked, to which the zookeeper responded by holding the spiky little creature out to the child.

“He’s rolled up into a ball now, but little Ferdinand here is actually quite friendly. The noise from so many people startled him a bit, but if we talk softly, he’ll uncurl and flatten his spines soon enough. Once he’s relaxed, you can gently pet him.”

Sure enough, as a soft hush descended over the group, a pointy little nose and two small black eyes peeked out from under the ball of quills, peering inquisitively at the group. The adorable face of the little animal reminded Duck of something Rachel, Fakir’s older cousin, had once said some months ago.

 _Fakir isn't the easiest person to get along with. But if you get to know him you'll see that he's like a hedgehog: prickly on the outside, but sweet and cute on the inside…_

Her eyes flitting to Fakir, Duck recalled how she had been confused by this odd comparison of the cantankerous detective to the funny-looking little creature. But now, after getting to know Fakir better, Duck had to agree that it was an apt comparison. Fakir could be stubborn and irritable, but he could also be gentle and considerate, and—to Duck’s secret admission—endearingly adorable when he was embarrassed and flustered.

The thought of this made Duck’s cheeks warm, but also drew a smile to her lips as she bent down and stroked the little creature’s head.

“What a cute little fella!” Duck exclaimed, fawning over the creature while Fakir arched his brows skeptically.

“I don’t know… looks like an awfully prickly handful to deal with,” he said, arms crossed over his chest. His brows only arched higher when Duck giggled.

“But that’s fine, though—that’s just their nature.” Looking up to meet Fakir’s gaze, Duck’s sky-blue eyes were full of warmth, like a clear summer day. “Someone once told me hedgehogs are prickly on the outside, but on the inside they’re cute and sweet. I didn’t know what that meant before, but now, having met one in person...” With her eyes still on Fakir, Duck smiled even broader. “I couldn’t agree more.” 

Mystified by the meaningful smile, Fakir felt himself flushing once again. Luckily for him, a distraction in the form of Zurab tugging on Duck’s dress saved his blush from being noticed.

“Duck, Duck! Zurab need to wee-wee, zura!” the toddler whispered.

“Oh! Um, let’s see,” Duck looked around, but with no helpful signposts around, she dug into her purse, pulling out empty candy wrappers and used trolley tickets before she located the crumpled park map she had stashed in there earlier.

“The elephant pen was here, and the sea lions were here… that means we must be around this area,” the shop girl said, tracing the map with her finger while Zurab and Fakir looked on quietly. Finding a “WC” sign close to where her fingertip was located, Duck looked to her right. “Ah! I think there’s a water closet just past the end of this road!” 

Taking a few steps in that direction, the trio saw the back side of a small building where a few people were coming and going. To Zurab, Duck offered her hand and said, “All right, let’s go then!”

But to both her and Fakir’s surprise, Zurab refused Duck’s hand. “No! Duck wait here, zura!” the child said firmly before scuttling off. 

“Are you sure, Zurab?” Duck took a step after Zurab but the sprightly child was already half way down the lane.

“Don’t worry so much, she’ll be fine.” Fakir reassured her, but Duck, still feeling unsure, followed after Zurab just as the toddler disappeared around the corner of the WC.

“Fakir, she’s only three years old! She might not even be potty-trained!” Duck exclaimed even as her face grew pink from mentioning the topic in public. She whispered urgently, “What if she falls in? Someone would have to get her out!”

The detective groaned, as Duck’s imagination was clearly quickly getting away from her. “Duck, that child is as smart as a whip! If she’s okay with going by herself, more than likely she knows what to do.” In a more placating tone, he repeated, “I’m sure she’ll be just fine.”

By now, they were outside the water closet, and Duck stepped inside without another word. Letting out an exasperated sigh, Fakir could do little except wait for Duck and Zurab.

But when Duck reemerged from the door a moment later, her expression was one of panic. “Fakir, she’s not here!”

Now it was Fakir’s turn to be alarmed. “What? But we saw her walk in!”

“I know!” Duck walked past him, looking frantically to and fro, but there was no sign of the mint-haired child. “Where could she have gone? We have to find her!”

“We’ll split up!” Fakir grasped Duck’s arm. “She couldn’t have gone too far in such a short time! Let’s circle back around and meet back here.”

Duck nodded briskly before taking off to the left. Likewise, Fakir hurried off in the opposite direction.

However, even after several minutes of calling out Zurab’s name and asking a number of passersby if they had seen a small child with mint-colored hair, there was no sign of the toddler.

As Fakir began to seriously consider finding a park officer to file a missing person report, he spotted Duck, also still alone, circling back around some distance in front of him.

Hurrying to meet back up with her, Fakir noticed a lanky figure standing beside a tall tree suddenly step forward and, to Fakir’s eyes, purposefully bump into Duck. With her mind still focused on Zurab, she uttered a quick apology before continuing on her way.

But Fakir’s eyes narrowed when he saw the man tuck something that had not been in his hand previously into a pocket and began to briskly walk away.

“ _Hey!_ ” Breaking into a sprint, Fakir gave the pickpocket little warning before slamming into him. The force from the tackle knocked both men to the ground, sending their hats flying as startled onlookers gasped in alarm.

Unbeknownst to Fakir, the jolt from the collision also succeeded in knocking the little jewelry box out of his pocket. Bouncing once on the ground, it then rolled to a stop at the foot of some hedges, before a small hand picked it up off the grass.

However, Fakir was focused solely on restraining the thief, who was trying desperately to escape. Fakir grabbed the man’s right arm and twisted it behind the man’s back, causing the pickpocket to yelp in pain as the plain-clothed detective pressed him against the ground.

“Get off me! I haven’t done nothin’—augh!” Still thrashing about, the thief’s wailing turned into a sharp whine when Fakir planted his knee into the man’s back to keep him from getting back to his feet.

“You picked the _wrong_ person to steal from today!” Fakir hissed into the thief’s ear as two uniformed police officers, alerted by the commotion, came running towards them. Roughly hauling the thief to his feet, Fakir cast a quick glance at Duck, who appeared shocked but unharmed, before turning his attention back to his fellow officers. 

“What in tarnation is going on?!” demanded the portly officer who first arrived on the scene.

“Sergeant Fakir Romeiras of the 53rd precinct,” Fakir flashed the badge pinned to the inside of his jacket while the second officer handcuffed the sorry-looking rogue. “I caught this man pickpocketing, and arrested him before he could get away.”

The stocky officer nodded approvingly. “What a stroke of luck for you to be here—well, not so for the dip* of course, but for the victim!” Looking at the crowd that had gathered, he asked, “Whose belongings did he steal?”

Duck raised her hand timidly and approached the group of officers.

Fishing into the thief’s pocket, Fakir took out the girl’s pilfered wallet and laid it back in Duck’s hands.

“Thanks, Fakir,” Duck said with relief. The sight of her warm smile, and the appreciation he could hear in her voice, made Fakir’s chest swell with pride.

But a light tug on his jacket cut the moment short, and Duck and Fakir were flabbergasted to see Zurab standing next to them.

“Zurab! Where did you go?! We were looking everywhere for you!” Duck exclaimed after giving the child a quick hug.

“Zurab went to wee-wee, zura,” the child responded matter-of-factly, mystified by their baffled expressions.

“But you weren’t in the water closet when I went to look for you! Where did you wonder off to?”

But this question from Duck was only met with more confusion from Zurab, who said, “Nowhere, zura. Zurab was in boy’s room when there was a big noise, and Zurab sees Fakir fighting with someone on the ground, zura!” 

With the crowd around them dispersing, Duck let out a groan. Her hands holding Zurab’s shoulders, she asked in exasperation, “Why were you in the boy’s room? You only go to the boy’s room if you’re a—”

At that moment, Duck stopped mid-sentence as she and Fakir exchanged wide-eyed looks.

“Zurab…are you a boy?” Duck asked slowly.

“Yes, zura!” Zurab answered in his usual cheerful manner. Yet this only made the realization all the more awkward for the two people who had been chaperoning him.

“But I thought—Ack!” Duck clapped her hand over her lips, while Fakir could only look on with his mouth agape.

Zurab then turned and held out something out to Fakir. To the detective’s surprise, it was the jewelry box he had been cradling earlier in his pocket.

Before he could ask Zurab how he had come into possession of the object, Zurab volunteered this information himself. “When Fakir ran into that bad man, this came out of his pocket, zura! Zurab found it, but Fakir can have it back, zura!”

Duck, distracted from her embarrassment, looked up and made a puzzled expression at the sight of the jewelry box.

The sight of her curious gaze gave Fakir pause, but after a moment of consideration, he held it out to her. “Um… I was going to give this to you later, but now is as good a time as any, I suppose…”

Duck picked up the jewelry box, now slightly scuffed on the corner from where it had hit the ground, and opened it gingerly. She gasped softly when she saw the polished carnelian pendant from Edel’s shop, now nestled in the middle of the white padded leather.

Watching her response with bated breath, Fakir felt compelled to explain, “I know it’s not much, and I’m not sure if it’s to your taste, but I wanted to give this to you…”

There were so, so many more words that Fakir wanted to say in that moment, so many feelings that he wanted to convey.

But as he studied Duck’s face, the initial surprise on her face gave way to a somber expression that pushed all of those words back down his throat. The only thing he could manage to say was a feeble and fading, “…It’s…my gift to you, for your birthday…”

Duck’s eyes betrayed no indication of her thoughts as she carefully snapped the box shut again—without even touching the pendant or examining it up close, Fakir noted dishearteningly—before slipping it inside her purse.

When she looked back up at him, there was a belabored smile on her lips, and an uncharacteristic stiffness leaked into her voice when she said, “Thank you, Fakir…It’s very pretty.”

Shifting her attention once again to Zurab, Fakir could not shake the feeling that Duck had no desire to examine her gift, and if anything, wanted to push it to the back of her mind as she proceeded to ask the little boy what they should do next.

Though Fakir knew there was always a chance Duck would not take a shine to his choice of present, the unexpected coldness with which she had greeted the pendant sent a stab of profound disappointment through his chest.

* * *

With the sun waning on the horizon, Fakir and Duck finally left the zoo grounds and exited the trolley on C Street. Zurab, exhausted from a long and exciting day, had fallen asleep in Fakir’s arms, his thumb tucked inside his mouth. Edel greeted the trio at her shop’s door as Zurab was roused from his slumber by his auntie’s voice.

“Did you have fun today, Zurab?” Edel asked as the bleary-eyed child rubbed at his eyes and nodded.

“Zurab saw the elephant and the sea lion and…” Here the child yawned widely and Edel chuckled.

Patting him gently on his head, she smiled at him maternally. “You can tell me later. Let’s get you washed up and in bed after supper.” To Duck and Fakir, she said, “Thank you for taking Zurab with you today, Duck. And happy birthday to you as well. I hope you both had an enjoyable day?”

“Er…” Duck scratched her cheeks. “Actually, it was a pretty eventful day. I got my wallet stolen at one point, but luckily Fakir was there, and he caught the thief red-handed. But before that, we almost lost Zurab because I thought he’d gone to the lady’s room… and it was only after he found us that we realized he’s a boy.”

Hearing this, the normally serene shopkeeper let out a rare burst of laughter. “That is quite an exceptional day!”

Edel touched her lips before composing herself. Offering Duck an apologetic smile, she continued, “I am sorry, Duck. I’ve known Zurab for so long, the thought had not occurred to me before; but I can understand how Zurab’s appearance can cause confusion.”

As the jewelry shopkeeper glanced down, her smile broadened when the sleepy child snuggled against her leg. After a pause, she explained, “Zurab’s father came from a very traditional-minded family, and they still unbreech boys when they are young. Zurab’s mother decided to breech him after moving here, but Zurab has taken a liking to dresses and continues to wear them even now.”*

“Oh, I see,” Duck nodded weakly. Knowing how tired Zurab was, Duck decided it was better to excuse herself (as well as this rather awkward topic) for the day. But before Duck could leave, Zurab walked up to her and reached out his arms.

“Yes, Zurab?” Duck knelt down, and the toddler wrapped his chubby arms around her shoulders.

“Zurab had a lot…a lot of fun today, zura!” Zurab mumbled drowsily into her hair. “Thank you, Duck. Happy birthday, zura!”

Her embarrassment melting away, Duck smiled and held Zurab close. “You’re welcome… and thank you, as well.”

Standing off to the side during this whole exchange, Fakir watched wordlessly as Duck finally bid goodnight to the residents of the Stein Jewelry Store. As the two of them began their short trek home, Duck continued to smile and said aloud to herself, “Zurab is such a sweet little boy!” 

“Hmm…” Fakir murmured noncommittally.

Duck threw a quick glance towards Fakir, but the detective was looking down at the ground and did not notice her gaze. Looking back down at her own feet, Duck continued after a pause, “Thank you again for coming, Fakir. I had a really wonderful day today.”

This made Fakir turn to look at her. Though there was a smile on Duck’s lips, Fakir couldn’t bring himself to smile back. “That’s good…but it could have gone better, though.”

After another long pause, Duck spoke up again, this time her voice was quiet. “What do you think is going to happen to the man who stole my wallet? Is he going to be in a lot of trouble?”

“Probably not, actually,” Fakir frowned as they crossed the street onto Lake Avenue. “Stealing a wallet is petty theft. That fella will probably serve a couple days in jail, then be back to his old tricks again.”

“Oh…” Duck scrunched her nose and pulled her purse closer to herself.

As they walked up to the landing of their apartment building, Duck pushed up the corner of her lips. Trying to sound cheerful, she said, “Well, I’m glad you were there, and…”

Fakir found himself holding his breath for a moment but Duck continued to say, “…and for helping to find Zurab.” Here, the shop girl let out an awkward laugh. “Though, I guess in the end it was Zurab who found us, not the other way around!”

Nodding once in response, Fakir found himself at a loss for words. As much as he wanted to ask Duck for her thoughts on the pendant he’d given her, the detective found himself unable to muster the courage to do so.

After bidding each another goodnight and closing his apartment door behind him, Fakir leaned against the wooden pane and wondered where had he gone wrong. 

_Was it too soon to give Duck something that reminded her of her mother’s lost pendant? Or did she dislike the pendant itself? It is, after all, a very simple necklace…_ Fakir mulled this over as he mechanically went about his evening routine.

Lying in bed, he recalled Duck’s expression, attempting to dissect the slight frown on her brows and the thin line of her lips after she opened the jewelry box. But try as he might, Fakir could not put a name to the look on his neighbor’s face, and the unspoken question haunted his thoughts until sleep finally overtook him. 

When Fakir opened his eyes again the next day, the first thing he noticed was that his room seemed far brighter than usual. Confused, Fakir reached for the clock at the nightstand and jumped out of bed when he saw it was more than an hour past his usual wake up time. 

Yelling a string of curses, Fakir changed his clothes as quickly as he could—not even bothering with a tie—grabbing his jacket and slapping his hat onto his head.

While Fakir was a natural early riser, he would still set an alarm clock as a precaution. But he had been so preoccupied the night before, he had completely forgotten about the alarm, and was now paying the price for his absentmindedness. With the weekly department meeting starting in half an hour, Fakir could not afford the time for coffee, or even to wash up.

Stepping into his shoes, he slammed the door closed behind him and jammed the key into the lock. He struggled to lock the door with his right hand, while the other arm remained stuck inside a misfolded jacket sleeve.

The door adjacent to his apartment opened, and a startled Duck gasped at him. “Fakir? You’re still here?”

“I’m late! I forgot to set the goddamned alarm clock!” Fakir shouted as he finally succeeded in pulling his left arm through the jacket sleeve.

Glancing at Duck, Fakir saw she was dressed for work in a pale yellow summer blouse and patterned skirt. The pendant he’d given her the day before was nowhere to be seen.

Turning away, Fakir shoved his key into a pocket and dashed toward the stairs. Behind him, Duck called out, “Good luck! I’ll see you later, then!”

His hurried trip to the office temporarily offering a respite from his doubts, Fakir ran most of the way to the precinct. By the time he had reached the door of the Homicide unit, he was panting heavily, drawing curious glances around the office. Alex, who happened to be near the door, was especially alarmed by the uncharacteristically disheveled appearance of his partner and mentor.

The junior detective followed Fakir to his desk as the sergeant collapsed into his chair, still gulping deep breaths of air as he carelessly tossed his hat to the side.

“Jesus, you look like you had a rough morning, Sarg,” Alex said with a wince.

Shaking his head, Fakir panted, “Don’t…even…ask…!”

“Well, catch your breath first. We still have a couple minutes before the department meeting. Oh!” Alex reached for the top of the stack of documents he was holding and placed a telegram envelope down on Fakir’s desk. “By the way, this came for you. I was going to leave it on your desk for later, but you came just in time that I could give it to you in person.”

Mutely nodding his thanks, Fakir held the envelope without looking at it, waiting for his pulse to slow.

After another minute or so, once his heart no longer threatened to leap out of his chest, Fakir turned the telegram around and tore open the envelope with his thumb. As he skimmed the message, the detective's eyebrows drew together.

On the white Western Union stationary were two short lines of text:

_Meet me today at 6 Bens Deli_

_AB_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Gibbs College was a chain of esteemed secretarial schools founded by Katherine Gibbs née Ryan. First opened 1911 in Rhode Island, the school expanded to multiple states on the East Coast throughout the 1920s. The school was well known for its strict, professional dress code as well as the high-quality secretarial and business training the students received. As the decades progressed, however, the school’s enrollment rates fell, and as of 2009, all Gibbs College campuses had closed after the franchise failed to find a buyer. The Mrs. Ryan here is a nod to the college founder’s maiden name.
> 
> *Thanks to Animal Planet’s “The Zoo”, I’ve learned quite a bit about the Bronx Zoo and its history. The present day Zoo Center used to be the elephant and rhino exhibit, and was only a short distance away from the sea lion pool. I did take some artistic liberty with the hedgehog being an “animal ambassador”, since as far as I am aware, this is a modern program at the zoo. However, it’s not completely impossible that a small, docile animal like a hedgehog could be carried around by a keeper to greet and interact with visitors back in the 1920s.
> 
> *“Dip” is a slang term for a pickpocket, popularized in the 1920s.
> 
> *“Breeching” is derived from “breeches”, a type of trousers popularized in the 16th century. Back then, babies and toddlers of both sexes wore dresses (and were thus “unbreeched”), which made answering the calls of nature easier in the era before disposable diapers, zippers, and other easily undone clothing fasteners. Young boys were “breeched” when they transitioned from wearing dresses to wearing breeches or trousers at around 6 to 7 years old. Breeching was a common practice in many Western cultures for centuries, up until the very end of the 19th century. By the time of this story, in 1925, the practice would’ve already been considered outdated and old-fashioned.
> 
> As for why Zurab is a boy, Zurab is a masculine name in Georgia. I was looking for European names that sounded similar to Uzura (which is of course, Japanese), and Zurab was the closest I could find. The name Zurab actually comes from the Persian name Sohrab, and is the name of a courageous young prince from the Persian epic, "Shahnameh".
> 
> Thanks to Tomoyo Ichijouji once again for proofreading!


	5. Chapter 5

The door of Ben’s Delicatessen opened, and Fakir was greeted by the peppery scent of cured meats and the chatter of its Yiddish-speaking patrons. He maneuvered around elderly couples in line for rye bread and meat, past younger folks out for a quick evening meal, making his way to a corner table where the bespectacled Autor sat, newspaper in hand.

The newsprint blocking the journalist’s face lowered a fraction as Autor raised an eyebrow at the sight of Fakir’s new haircut. “This is unexpected. You’re actually well-groomed for once,” Autor quipped, shuffling the pages of the newspaper in his hands.

Expecting a biting comeback, Autor lowered his newspaper further when the man sitting across from him made no response except for a wordless grimace. “What’s wrong? Did the cat get your tongue?” the journalist asked as he folded up the newspaper and turned his full attention onto Fakir.

When Fakir answered with more silence, Autor sniggered. “Hmm, or should I say _duck_ got your tongue?”

This little jab seemed to have the desired effect and spurred Fakir to cast an annoyed glare at Autor. “Oh, shut up!” Fakir muttered before exhaling a long breath, his brows still locked together.

Deciding he had teased Fakir enough for the time being, Autor leaned back in his chair. “So, what happened?”

“It’s none of your business,” Fakir shot back.

But Autor knew how Fakir had a hard time focusing on anything else when matters related to Duck were on his mind. Thus, he had no intention of carrying on a one-sided conversation whist the policeman sat and stewed in his own thoughts in silence.

“Fakir, I have made a career out of minding other people’s business. At the moment, that includes yours,” Autor rejoined primly, his arms crossed across his chest.

Fakir gave Autor a hard stare as he tried to decide whether to punch the nosy newshound or disclose his personal problems to him. Deciding the former would require far more energy than he could spare, Fakir relented.

“It was Duck’s birthday yesterday. She was supposed to go to the zoo with her friends, but they cancelled last minute, so I went with her instead.”

“Ah, so you went on a date with her?”

“It wasn’t a date!” Fakir insisted stubbornly, to which Autor rolled his eyes. Moving on, Fakir continued, “In any case, I…I’d gotten her a present, but she didn’t take a shine to it.”

“What did you get her?” Autor arched an eyebrow warily. “I hope it wasn’t anything…salacious?”

“For the love of—! No, Autor!” Fakir yelled, his face coloring when nearby patrons cast curious glances his way. Lowering his voice, Fakir said quickly, “It was a pendant. A red carnelian pendant.”

But Autor’s brow only arched higher. “You gave her a _red_ carnelian stone?” the journalist emphasized.

The incredulous tone in Autor’s voice made Fakir’s stomach sink. “Um, yes… what about it?”

“Well,” Autor cleared his throat and leaned over the table, “you may be surprised to know this, but I actually know a thing or two about gemstones. A few years ago, I spoke with a woman who claimed to be versed in the ancient knowledge of stones and their powers.”

“Wait—you, of all people—believe in that hocus-pocus?” Fakir asked, it now being his turn to cast a disbelieving look at his tablemate.

“Of course not!” Autor retorted quickly. Pushing up his glasses, the journalist explained, “This was two years ago, during the height of the King Tut craze. I was assigned to interview a woman who was a self-purported ‘priestess of the All-Goddess, Isis’. I don’t know how the bureau chief heard about this woman, but given how Egypt-mad the readership seemed to be at the time, he thought interviewing her would be a newsworthy endeavor.*

“In any case,” Autor waved it off, “that was how I ended up at this woman’s house where she peppered me with information about ancient Egyptian religion and rituals. One of the things she showed me was a box of stones and amulets, and I remember one of the stones she talked at length about was a red carnelian.”

By now, Fakir—in spite of his reservations about the topic—found himself leaning forward to hear to what Autor had to say. “And?” Fakir asked, his sunken stomach twisting inward the longer Autor drew out his story. “What did she say about it?”

Autor paused, and Fakir wondered if he was imagining things, but there was a coquettish look on the usually prudish journalist’s face.

Quickly glancing around them, Autor whispered, “She said carnelian, red ones in particular, represented passion and desire. They were worn as amulets to, er—” Here Autor paused. “…boost male potency and virility.”

Watching Fakir’s reaction, Autor saw all of the color drain from the detective’s face. Burying his face in his hands, Fakir uttered a long groan into his palms.

 _The jewelry store owner never mentioned that!_ Fakir fumed, too mortified to look up. _No wonder Duck refuses to wear the pendant! God, she must think I’m a pervert, or some sort of deviant!_

Across from Fakir, Autor watched the dark-haired man with a mix of pity and concern. “Fakir?” the journalist ventured, but his tablemate only answered with another pained groan.

As Fakir sat hunched over the table, a waitress—who was the co-proprietor of the deli and Autor’s aunt—approached them and said affectionately to Autor, “How’s everything, bubbeleh? Are you and your friend doing all right?”

“Um, yes?” the corner of Autor’s lips twitched as his eyes darting from Fakir to his relative. “Can you give us a moment, please, Aunt Judith?”

Seeing Fakir’s despondent state, Aunt Judith bent down and whispered to Autor, “Is your friend feeling all right, dear? Should I get him some soup? Bubbeh’s matzah ball soup can cure anything, you know.”

Autor exhaled a soft, exasperated sigh. As gently as he could, he said to his exceedingly congenial aunt, “I don’t think this is something soup can fix, Aunt Judith…” Repeating his request earlier, Autor said earnestly, “Please, could you give us a few minutes?”

Aunt Judith pouted but nodded obligingly. “I’ll leave you boys to it, then,” she gave Autor a light pat on the back. “Just call if you need anything, bubbeleh!”

Once Aunt Judith had retreated out of earshot, Autor turned his attention back to the despairing detective. “Don’t look so morose, Fakir,” the journalist cajoled. “That is just one of a number of meanings people have attached to these bits of stones and baubles, and quite an esoteric meaning at that. Duck probably has no idea about it.”

Seeing Fakir still doubled over in his chair, Autor decided a change in topic was needed to distract the detective from his misery. He coughed loudly, which succeeded in getting Fakir to look up from between his fingers.

“I called you here for a reason, Fakir,” Autor said emphatically. “Ricky came back last week, and I finally got a chance to speak to him about the taxi dancer.”

The journalist’s strategy was effective, as Fakir ran his hands through his newly shorn hair, his eyes coming to rest on Autor once again.

“What did he tell you?” Fakir asked half-heartedly.

“I didn’t ask him about it directly, so to speak,” Autor leaned back into his chair again, smirking with a sly glint in his eyes. “I had a feeling he wasn’t going to tell me anything if I’d just asked him about it out of the blue. Being jilted is a rather awkward topic to ask someone under normal circumstances, and I wasn’t particularly well-acquainted with Ricky. But when I heard he and a couple other fellas at the bureau were planning to visit a local club, I decided a manufactured coincidence was in order.”

It took Fakir a moment for him to piece together what Autor was getting at, but once it dawned on him, the detective drew his brows together. “You went to a speakeasy? I can’t imagine someone straitlaced like you would drink.”

“I don’t. I have sworn never to touch alcohol ever again,” Autor added darkly. His eyes drifted momentarily away from Fakir down to the table before he looked back up with a thin, wry smile. “However, as much as I abhor the ills that surround alcohol, I cannot deny that it is exceptionally effective at loosening the tongues of men. And if Ricky was intent on being inebriated anyway, why not use it to my advantage? It’s a bit underhanded, I admit, but I was not putting his person in danger, and the information he had was worth the attempt.

“I made sure to arrive at the club before the boys did, and ordered a simple glass of punch. Sweetened cocktails are so common nowadays that no one, save for myself and the bartender, would’ve been any the wiser, and the latter was easily hushed up with a good tip. From there, it was a simple matter of waiting for my quarry to appear and approaching them when they each had gotten at least one round of drinks in them. At that point they were naturally jovial, and proceeded to invite me to join them. After Ricky had tossed back two more gins and tonics, he was more than willing to talk about the taxi dancer who had jilted him.”

“And?” Fakir stared expectantly at Autor to get to the point. “Did you get a name out of him?”

“Two names,” Autor held up two fingers. “One was the name of the girl. She goes by Annie Grant, but I wouldn’t be surprised if that isn’t her real name. I didn’t dare probe too deep, so have no description of what she looks like. Hopefully it will not be difficult to find her after I also managed to extract from him the name of the dance hall where she works.”

Autor reached into an inner coat pocket and took out a folded sheet of lined notebook paper. “It’s called Hal’s Ballroom.* I looked it up in the directory and got a number that you can call,” the bespectacled man said, pushing the folded paper cross the table to Fakir.

Autor continued, “The business advertises itself as a venue and dance academy, but that’s what a lot of taxi dance halls call themselves. I would call them first to make sure this Annie person is real. Pretend you’ve been referred there for a dance lesson and ask for an ‘instructor’ by the name of Annie Grant. We don’t know what kind of connections Annie might have, and it would not be in our favor if she knew we’re looking for her.”

“Agreed,” Fakir nodded slowly. Glancing at the numbers jotted down on the note, he then turned his gaze back to Autor. “Anything else you want to discuss?”

Autor shook his head. Taking that as a sign to conclude their meeting, Fakir tucked the note into his pocket and pushed back his chair. Before turning away from the table, the detective locked eyes once more with Autor.

“Autor, you…” Fakir paused, his pride once again stopping him from openly acknowledging the journalist's aid. Instead, he asked, “…You went to an awful lot of trouble for this. Why?”

Autor looked at Fakir askance for a moment. Then, after a pause, a familiar grin appeared on the newsman’s face. “You want to know what’s in it for me? Well, call it an ‘investment’.”

“An investment?” Fakir echoed dubiously.

“Journalism is like any other business: you have to work for your leads,” Autor shrugged. “If this taxi dancer and the threat she supposedly overheard turns out to be of substance, and the suspect can be identified, I will have firsthand front-page material on my hands.”

Doffing his hat, Fakir huffed. “Of course. Nevertheless…” The detective mutely nodded his head before turning away.

Behind him, with a smile still on his face, Autor nodded knowingly in turn as he watched the detective exit the deli.

* * *

The sun had set outside the 53rd precinct office, but inside, the lamp on Fakir’s desk continued to burn brightly. After dialing the number Autor had given him, Fakir followed the journalist’s advice and inquired about lessons with an instructor named Annie Grant. To Fakir’s relief, the ballroom manager gave him not only the address for the ballroom but also confirmed that a girl by that name worked there. However, she only danced there three out of five weekdays, which meant Fakir would have to find time in his schedule for a chance to speak with her.

With his calendar in front of him and a pen tucked under his chin, Fakir skimmed the dates and weighed his options. _This Friday is no good; I have to meet with the DA, and there’s no telling how long that will take…_

Fakir flipped a page to the following week and found a gap in his schedule on Wednesday. _I need to get the final medical examiner’s report for the Boiardo case, but that shouldn’t take too long…_ With his pen hovering above the page, the detective’s hand jerked when the phone next to him suddenly rang.

Half expecting it to be another call from Autor, Fakir snatched up the receiver and barked, “Who’s calling?”

But the annoyance on his face turned into a look of surprise when the telephone operator answered, “Mrs. Rachel Strauss is on the line for you, sir. Are you available to speak with her?”

“Rachel? Uh, yes, put her through.”

Fakir waited, and after a crackle as the lines are switched, Rachel’s melodic voice greeted the detective.

“Good evening, Fakir. I called you at home but you didn’t answer, so I thought you might still be at work. Are you staying late again?”

“Um, yeah,” Fakir mumbled, his hand rubbing his neck.

Despite his words, Fakir knew he was using work as an excuse. Even with Autor’s reassurance, Fakir couldn’t escape the feeling he had committed a terrible faux pas in giving Duck the carnelian pendant. Until he could come up with a way to broach the topic with Duck, Fakir preferred to stay cooped up in the office than risk running into her on her way home.

Rachel, of course, knew none of this. She entreated, “I know your work is very important, but you need to remember to rest and take care of yourself. Working so late all the time is terrible for your health!”

“I can take care of myself just fine, Rachel!” Though Fakir knew Rachel meant well, in his flustered and unhappy mood, he snapped back, “What are you calling me about, anyway? I don’t have time to chitchat right now.”

“Oh, Fakir,” the singer sighed heavily from the other side. “Very well, I’m calling you because I have something to ask you. Are you free on September 27th?”

Fakir frowned. With the calendar in front of him, he flipped to the day Rachel had requested and answered, “I’m off that day. Why?”

There was a slight rustle of papers from Rachel’s end and Fakir imagined she was also standing close to a calendar, flipping through the pages. “Your birthday is coming up, but I have a full week of rehearsals the week of October 4th. I’ll be free the week before, and we can have an early birthday celebration on the 27th if you’re available.”*

Hearing this, Fakir nearly groaned aloud. With his anxiety from Duck’s birthday still unresolved, the absolute last thing he wanted to think about was his _own_ birthday! “Rachel, I don’t have time for this! We’ll do something next year, all right?”

“Fakir, that’s exactly what you said _last_ year!” Rachel said sternly, and from her tone Fakir knew his cousin was not going to budge on this. “You had just said you have the day off on the 27th. I’m serious about what I said earlier, that you need to take better care of yourself. Relaxing and celebrating your own birthday with family is a part of that. If having a formal dinner is too much trouble, I can bring a cake and we can have a casual little celebration over afternoon tea instead. Oh! And you should invite Duck as well! Cake is best enjoyed with others, and it would be lovely to do some catching up with the two of you!”

More obliquely, the singer added, “I have some very interesting news to share as well, but I will save the details for when we meet up in person. I can be at your place by three on the 27th. Will that work?”

By now Fakir was sitting with his face in his hand. Too mentally and emotionally exhausted to argue, Fakir let out the groan he’d been holding back and answered pithily, “Fine… three is fine.”

Rachel chuckled softly from the other end of the line, clearly delighted in her victory. “Grand! I will leave you to your work now. Don’t stay too late; I will see you in a few weeks, then. Goodnight, Fakir!”

“Goodbye…” Fakir replied weakly before hanging up the receiver, his head still in his hand as he wondered how on earth he had just been coerced into going along with Rachel’s birthday plans.

 _Guess I’ll have to talk to Duck, then_ , the detective thought as he picked up the pen and penciled in “Rachel visiting” into his agenda. Tapping the pen nervously on his desk, the detective grimaced. _But there is still the matter of the pendant…_

Here, Fakir recalled the somber expression on Duck’s face. Having dissected that moment hundreds of time in his head, Fakir realized it was a look of discomfort, that for a split second, she seemed almost pained by the sight of the pendant. Knowing this, anyone else would have let the matter drop altogether, or quickly apologized for any offense made. But Fakir could do neither. The idea that he might’ve unintentionally upset Duck prickled ceaselessly at Fakir’s conscience; yet, he could not muster the courage to ask her outright what about the pendant had upset her so.

 _I’m such an idiot…_ Fakir admonished himself as he tossed the pen into a drawer. Outside the precinct’s windows, the black veil of night fell across the city, drowning the detective ever deeper into his troubled thoughts.

* * *

By the time Duck had scaled the last step to stand at the floor she shared with Fakir, night had fallen outside their building. Under the dim hallway light, Duck cast a glance at her neighbor’s door before reaching for her keys.

 _I haven’t seen Fakir since Monday morning, when he left in such a hurry,_ Duck thought as she entered her apartment, dark shadows engulfing the room from her doorway. She switched on her electric lamp, headed for the kitchen, and began searching through her pantry for the ingredients to make a sandwich for dinner. Even then, she continued to think of Fakir.

_I hope everything worked out okay and he wasn’t too late for work. He seemed really stressed out that day…_

As the evening quietly ticked by, and the dishes were washed and dried, Duck made her way to her bedroom. Reaching for her mother’s picture, Duck’s hand paused when she caught sight of the scuffed up little jewelry box that sat on the lace doily on top of her cabinet.

After a moment of hesitation, Duck’s hand drifted away from Elsa’s photo and towards the jewelry box. Taking a seat on her bed, she gingerly snapped open the box and watched as the smooth red stone shimmered under the amber glow of her table lamp.

Duck’s brow furrowed as she traced a finger around the stone’s cool, polished surface. This unexpected gift had genuinely surprised Duck when Fakir had presented it to her at the zoo. But that feeling of surprise had quickly given way to apprehension.

Gingerly taking the necklace out of its box, Duck cupped the pendant in her hands, holding it tenderly like a delicate baby bird. _The stone is so pretty. It must’ve been expensive! Why would Fakir give me something lavish like this just for my birthday?_

The unease in her chest swelled as Duck looked at the black-and-white photo of a younger Duck and her mother. Her gaze lingered on the pendant around Elsa’s neck.

Her mother’s necklace was given to her by Duck's father, Loeguire—a man whom Duck had never met. It had been an engagement present, a sign of his enduring love. But that love had become inexorably knotted with betrayal and grief when Loeguire had abandoned Elsa and their unborn child.

Duck closed her fingers around the pendant, her eyebrows creasing further. _What is Fakir trying to say with this necklace? That I am a really important friend? Or could it be that he is in fact…?_

Duck swallowed nervously as she recalled the moment she cracked opened the jewelry box at the zoo. She had been captivated by its simple but elegant beauty. Surely, a gift as precious as this was only meant for someone Fakir cared deeply for. The thought dredged up an uninvited question in Duck’s mind.

The red-haired girl imagined her mother receiving the garnet pendant many years ago. Wearing a wide brim hat and stylish silk dress, the young Elsa accepting the pendant from her future husband could not have known that her love was fated to end in tragedy.

But in the present, Duck knew. A cold hand gripped Duck’s heart as she worried if she too would suffer the same fate as her mother, and her relationship with Fakir would be doomed to end in tragedy.

 _No! That’s ridiculous! I’m thinking too much!_ Duck told herself sternly as she stared down at the polished pendant nestled in its case.

Yet the lingering trepidation refused to relinquish its grasp around her heart. That day, Fakir had stood there next to her, watching expectantly. Duck had only managed a few words of polite thanks before snapping the box closed, too flustered to articulate anything more.

Thankfully, a distraction in the form of Zurab allowed Duck to turn her focus away from the pendant and the questions it posed for much of that day. But once the boy had left, the little jewelry box hovered like a specter in the back of Duck’s mind. Though she wanted to thank Fakir properly, she simply couldn’t find the right words to do so.

 _I’m such a coward_ , Duck thought with a sigh.

Duck opened her fingers and found the stone in her palm warm to the touch. As she lay the necklace back atop of the bed spread, she felt her cheeks beginning to warm as well, as if they were heating up with the pendant.

Since their visit to the zoo, except for that short exchange the morning he had been late for work, Duck had not seen or spoken to Fakir. With each passing day, as Fakir failed to materialize in the morning by her door or in the evening in front of her work place, Duck was becoming more and more acutely aware of his absence.

The question she had once asked herself at the pointe shoe shop resurfaced in Duck’s mind. Curling her knees under her chin, Duck gazed upon the crimson stone next to her with half-lidded eyes, losing herself in a daydream.

She imagined herself and Fakir dancing at either end of a wide-open stage while an invisible orchestra played somewhere beyond the stage lights. She wore a white flowing dress made of delicate tulle, while he was clad in a dark leotard, the color of midnight.

Initially, they turned sharply away from one another in mutual contempt, their hands and feet making sweeping arcs to the rapid beat of the music as they sought to assert themselves to the other.

But as the music’s dramatic tempo slowed to a gentle andante, the distance between them diminished, until they were dancing next to one another, eyes briefly making contact, then turning away again before their arms could touch.

Then, as the music softened to a pianissimo, Fakir stopped. His eyes gentle and sincere, he cradled his heart with both hands in a gesture of love, before circling them in the air and extending his right hand towards her in invitation.

The red-haired girl saw herself turning away from him en pointe. But after some distance, her footsteps stilled, and she turned back to meet his gaze.

The man she saw before her was stubborn and stern, but also kind and caring. He had almost literally gone to the ends of the Earth for her and had promised to stay by her side, all without expecting anything in return.

As Duck looked upon the pendant, a warmth stirred in her heart, at last thawing the icy grasp of apprehension that had held her back.

In Duck’s daydream, her dancer persona cupped her heart before extending her hands to Fakir’s danseur. Turning her satin-clad feet forward, the ballerina returned to her partner’s side and with a shy smile, allowed him to close his fingers around her extended hand.

That shy smile from her daydream self was now mirrored on her own face as she held the pendant in her hands. _Whatever feeling Fakir is trying to convey through this gift, be it love or friendship…I will accept it, because it’s from him. And I…_

Here, the blush on Duck’s face grew hotter, but her smile grew wider in turn as she looped the chain around her hand and draped the pendant over her head, where it to came to rest below her collar bones, adjacent to her heart.

* * *

When Saturday morning came, Fakir woke to find himself no closer to having a plan for how to broach the subject of the pendant to Duck.

 _It shouldn’t be this hard,_ the detective groused as he stood in his kitchen sipping on a cup of coffee. _You are a grown man._ _What are you afraid of? That she’ll say she hated it? Or that she’ll reject you along with the pendant?_

This last question haunted Fakir as he looked down at his reflection in the cup. The thought that Duck’s rejection extended beyond the pendant was a bitter pill that Fakir could not bring himself to swallow.

 _Wouldn’t it be better to just let things be? Why strive to clarify something when the answer could only make the pain worse?_ Fakir had no answers to any of these questions.

His contemplation was cut short when a light knock drew his attention to the door. Wondering who it could be, Fakir set the cup down and went to answer the door. His eyes opened wide when Fakir beheld a sheepish Duck standing in front of him.

“Er… sorry to bother you, Fakir, but do you have a pair of plyers and a wire cutter I can borrow?” the red-haired girl asked, pursing her lips awkwardly.

Fakir gulped. His earlier contemplations were still swirling about in his head, and it took him a second before he answered, “Um… yes, I do.” Taking another second to think about Duck’s question, a confused Fakir asked, “Why do you need a wire cutter?”

“Oh!” Duck let out a short, embarrassed laugh. “That’s kind of an odd question to ask, isn’t it? Sorry, I should’ve explained first! You see, yesterday Lillie and Pique surprised me with a Marquette quick oats radio kit.”*

The shop girl smiled fondly as she recalled how her friends had proudly presented her with the kit box, swathed in garish floral-print wrapping paper. “Pique and Lillie had remembered that I said I liked operas, and they had the idea to get me a radio kit so I could listen to operas on the air. They couldn’t give it to me until this Thursday because it took almost three weeks for the kit to arrive after they mailed the coupons in.”

Here Duck grew diffident again, scratching the back of her head. “I read the instructions and looked at the diagrams, but even with the pictures, it’s a bit confusing…there’s a lot of wires and it requires some tools that I don’t have, so…”

Studying the shop girl, Fakir finished the thought Duck had left unspoken. “Do you want some help?”

“Um…” Duck gave Fakir a weak smile as she shuffled her heels. “If it’s not too much trouble…?”

 _So much for trying to avoid her_ , Fakir thought as he breathed a quiet sigh. As frustrated as Fakir was with his own inability to ask a simple question, he was not about to abandon Duck when she had come to him for help.

Turning around, he said gruffly to mask his own nervousness, “Don’t feel embarrassed about asking for help, idiot.” Walking back into his kitchen to retrieve his toolbox, Fakir added, “We’re neighbors, after all.”

Behind him, Duck pouted. “I know… it’s just…” She darted a shy glance at him.

Luckily for her, Fakir did not notice, and with toolbox in hand, he walked out of his apartment and followed Duck into her unit.

Out of habit, Fakir reached to close the front door behind him. But before the door shut, Fakir remembered this was not his own home he was walking into, but the home of an unmarried, unchaperoned young woman.

Suddenly feeling just as sheepish as Duck was a moment earlier, he left the door partly ajar, lest anyone walking by would get the wrong idea when they heard his voice coming from her apartment.

On top of her dining table, Duck had laid out the various components from the kit, as well as a spool of wires, and an empty quick oats container. Reading through the instructional pamphlet, Fakir had to reread it one more time to try to make sense of the directions, and even then, it was not entirely apparent to him what he was supposed to do. But with Duck watching him keenly, Fakir squared his shoulders and decided to give it his best shot.

“So, we need to coil this copper tire around this cylinder…” Fakir’s brows creased together as he looked back at the pamphlet and picked up the cylindrical quick oats container, “but first, we need to punch some holes through the side.”

“How do we do that? The cardboard is pretty tough.”

“Well, we can use a knife, but that seems unsafe…” Fakir grimaced. “Maybe some scissors instead?”

Bit by bit, tools were gathered, and with the two of them working together, the pieces of the radio began to come together into something that resembled the apparatus depicted in the diagrams.

“Alright, now we need to fit the crystal detector here,” Fakir turned away from the diagram he was examining.

“It’s this piece, right?” Duck picked up the small, black crystal and handed it out to Fakir. But before he could reach his hand out, the tiny crystal slipped out from between Duck’s fingers and with a soft “clink”, disappeared somewhere on the floor.

“Oh no!” The red-haired girl cried as she dropped to the ground and began reaching around for the missing detector.

“Did it roll under the table?” Fakir wondered as he too got on his knees and began scanning the floorboards.

“I’m not sure…” Duck frowned as she lowered her head and peeked under her dining table. But other than a coating of dust, there was nothing there.

As Duck straightened her back, the carnelian pendant slid out from under her blouse and came to hang beneath her collar.

The glimmer of the red pendant startled Fakir. He blinked, speechless for a moment, before he blurted out, “You’re wearing it?”

“Huh?” Duck followed Fakir’s gaze and looked down at the pendant. “Oh,” Holding the red stone in one hand, she smiled faintly, “You mean this?”

Sitting on the floor across from Duck, Fakir felt at once relieved and exceedingly foolish. Looking away from her, he said, “I didn’t see you wear it at first, so I thought you didn’t like it…” Glancing tentatively at her, he added, “I thought maybe it wasn’t to your taste. After all, it pales in comparison to your mother’s pendant…”

Here Fakir’s courage faltered once more. He averted his gaze again as Duck watched him, first with surprise, then in contemplation.

“Fakir…” Duck began, drawing Fakir’s eyes back to her. “I’d told you I lost Ma’s pendant, but the truth is…”

Sitting with her hands in her lap, Duck pursed her lips. Steeling her nerves, she finally said, “…I gave the pendant away, to Mytho.”

Fakir couldn’t believe what he was hearing. His brows knitted together in bewilderment. “What? _Why?_ I mean, yes, he was your mother’s former pupil… but why give the pendant to him when it meant so much to you?”

Duck had anticipated his reaction and responded calmly, “When we were on the train to Chicago, Mytho told me a story about my parents that I didn’t know about.”

Her eyes on her interlaced hands, Duck recalled the dark train carriage she shared with Mytho, and the tragic tale he imparted to her that lonely night. “The story was about my Pa. I had never met Pa and was told he had died before I was born. The pendant was originally an engagement gift from him to Ma, and I always thought Ma treasured it because she still loved and thought of Pa…”

Duck bit her lip as that familiar sorrow welled up in her chest. “Mytho told me how Ma had been devastated when she found out the boat Pa had been on had sank into the river, and was presumed dead. But, Pa hadn’t died. Ma only found out the truth years later, after my grandpa had passed away. She found a letter that Pa had written to her that my grandpa had kept hidden from her.

“In it, Pa admitted to faking his own death. He had done so to escape the massive debts he had accrued before meeting Ma, and he apologized in the letter for running away, as he felt he had no other choice. Ma…she was absolutely devastated. She had spent years paying off his debts, thinking he was dead, yet it turned out she had been used, and her love had been betrayed…”

Duck’s solemn blue eyes drifted upward and caught Fakir’s gaze. Seeing the stunned expression on her neighbor’s face, Duck gave him a small, sad smile. “Even though Ma was terribly upset with Pa, she still kept the pendant he gave her. To her, the pendant was a symbol of Pa’s betrayal, but also a reminder of the love they had shared and the happier times they had spent together. As much as it pained Ma to keep it, she didn’t want to give up those memories that were so precious to her.”

Her expression pensive, Duck continued, “At the time, Mytho was considering giving up everything he had to take down Don Corvo. He was willing to throw away his heart and give up his own life for that goal. But I didn’t want Mytho to give up his feelings of love, whether it was for Ma, for Rue, or for you, Fakir. That’s why I gave the pendant to him: to remind him of his own love and the love others felt for him—just as Ma had kept it as a symbol of the love she once had for Pa.”

There was no response from Fakir for a long moment, but Duck could see there was a quiet seething anger behind his eyes. At last, he said with disgust, “I can’t believe your father, he…” Fakir’s hands balled into fists, “he’s a bloody coward!”

“I know…” Duck unclenched her hands and placed her palms on the cool wooden floor. “But…I’m a coward too.”

Taken aback, Fakir leaned towards her, saying, “What are you talking about? You were willing to testify against the Corvos when no one else dared to. Duck…” Here Fakir faltered for a moment before he found his voice again, and when he spoke his words were soft and earnest, “…You are one of the bravest people I’ve ever met.”

At those words, Duck blinked with surprise. She smiled, bashfully now, and said, “Thank you, Fakir. But when you first gave me this pendant, to be honest, I…I was scared.” Duck’s hand closed around the carnelian pendant at her throat. “I didn’t know what the pendant meant. Ma’s pendant was a sign of love from Pa…”

Duck swallowed, the doubt in her heart resurfacing once again. _Should I tell Fakir all this? How would he react?_

She paused. _No, it wouldn’t do to keep pushing this into the background. After all, I’ve already decided…_ Duck closed her eyes momentarily, and then pressed on.

“I…I wasn’t sure if that was also what you were trying to say. But given what happened to Ma and Pa, I couldn’t stop thinking, ‘what if the same thing happens to me?’”

Duck’s blue eyes darted toward Fakir, who was watching her with wide-eyed surprise.

The detective had no idea Duck was aware of his feelings. He had not set out to confess his feelings to Duck when he gave her the pendant. Yet, much like how Autor demonstrated that an object can be interpreted in various ways, Fakir had never considered the possibility that Duck might have read his gesture as romantic in nature.

The added revelation of her parents’ ill-fated love and the truth behind Elsa’s pendant made the choice of gift seem all the more inappropriate. Panic erupted in Fakir’s mind.

“I-I never meant to—! I’m sorry, I-I’ll leave, right now!” Fakir began, and was on his knees to stand up when Duck grasped his hand.

“Wait, Fakir!”

Startled by her touch, Fakir looked back at Duck, the pounding of his rapidly beating heart almost drowning out her voice. Gently, she pulled him back towards her until he was sitting across from her on the floor again.

“I was scared at first, but then I remembered something very important,” Her hand still holding his, Duck held Fakir’s emerald gaze and smiled. “You are _you_ , Fakir. You’ve always kept your word, and have protected me despite overwhelming odds.”

She paused to take a deep breath and continued, “When I was at the zoo, I felt really happy and content when I was with you. I wished, then, that every day could be like that. That’s why I’ve decided to wear this pendant.”

Though her cheeks—like Fakir’s—were now flushed, Duck squeezed his hand and her smile deepened. Softly, she said, “Presents help convey feelings from the person giving the gift to the person receiving the gift. I…I don’t want to presume to know what your feelings towards me are, Fakir, but no matter what they are…I will accept them.”

Not for the first time that day, Fakir was left at a loss for words. But the feeling of Duck’s hand on his gave Fakir the courage to slowly but steadily shift his fingers, until they were intertwined with Duck’s.

“Duck, I…” Fakir looked away even as his held Duck’s hand tightly. “There are so many things I want to say to you, but nothing’s coming together right in my head…” he admitted as Duck waited patiently for him to continue. “I…I know I’m probably not making a lot of sense right now, I just…I know I want to stay with you, and protect you, forever and ever, if you would let me…”

But as petrified as Fakir was by the thought of how foolish he must look to her right now, Duck clearly did not seem to mind. She beamed reassuringly at him, and with her other hand on the pendant, said, “That’s okay. I was at a bit of a loss for a long time too, but I think I’ve finally figured it out, and…”

Around them, the morning rays of light reflected off the tiny flakes of dust floating in the air, glimmering like fragments of starlight. As the sunlight touched Duck’s auburn tresses, her hair and body seemed to glow as she leaned in towards Fakir. Their faces almost touching, Duck whispered, “…I think I love you, Fakir…”

Fakir looked at the girl sitting across from him as her gentle words shook his world to its core. The countless hours spent worrying and pining all vanished in an instant at those words. He wanted nothing more than to answer her declaration with his own outpouring of emotions, but the affection and tenderness in her cerulean eyes took his breath away.

Instead, he reached up with his free hand, taking care to move gingerly, reverently—lest he disturb the sublime tranquility of this moment in time—and cupped Duck’s cheek. His touch sent a quiet shudder through Duck, but she did not flinch or look away as the heat of her skin radiated into Fakir’s hand.

Though there were a million and one things he wanted to express to her, Fakir knew there was only one thing that needed to be said. Taking one last long look at her, so as to inscribe this moment into his memory forever, Fakir closed his eyes and at last, found the courage to speak the truth he had been known in his heart for many months.

“…And I, you,” his lips whispered, before he tenderly kissed her.

Having never been kissed before, Duck inhaled sharply when she felt Fakir’s lips brush against hers. But his incredibly delicate touch quickly eased her nervousness, and Duck quivered as a pleasant tangling sensation traveled down her spine and through her fingers and toes.

But before either of them could linger on this special moment, a loud “ _BANG_ ” in the hallway behind them made both Duck and Fakir jump nearly three feet in the air.

“ _Henry!_ ” the voice of the old lady living across the hall screeched after having slammed her door shut. “Will you hurry up, dear? We’ll be late for bingo!”

“I’m coming, Meredith, just let me tie my shoes,” Henry's obsequious voice answered.

Both Fakir and Duck sat with their eyes glued to the door until the old couple shuffled by, their voices continuing to echo from down the staircase.

Once their voices had finally faded away, an awkward silence descended on the apartment. Duck turned to look timidly at Fakir, who was clutching his chest as if he had nearly gotten a heart attack.

Noticing her gaze, Fakir glanced back at Duck while the two of them remembered what they had been doing shortly before their hoary neighbors ruined the moment. Turning their eyes away from one another in silent embarrassment, they simply sat next to one another, eyes turned back to the floor.

Finally, Fakir cleared his throat. “Um… what do you say we find that diode and finish the radio?” he asked softly. Pushing himself up, Fakir got back on his feet, then turned and held his hand out to Duck.

“Yeah…” Duck smiled shyly before taking Fakir’s hand and allowing him to pull her up.

Returning to their task, they searched around the dining room once more when a glint between a large crack in the floorboard caught Fakir’s eyes. “I found it!” the detective said triumphantly and picked up the wayward crystal.

After carefully connecting the diode into the rest of the circuit, they then secured the antenna and grounded the radio to the pipe under Duck’s kitchen sink. Once the last two wires were twisted into place, Duck eagerly picked up one of the ear pieces and placed it in her ear.

“Hear anything?” Fakir asked as Duck’s brows knitted together in concentration.

After a few seconds, to Fakir’s disappointment, Duck shook her head. “I can only hear a hissing noise. I think we’ll have to tune it to pick up anything.” So speaking, she turned to the crude dial they had made and began ever so slightly turning it to the right, then to the left.

Fakir picked up the other ear piece and together they waited and listened, hoping to hear music or a voice crack through the noise. But despite fiddling with the dial and the wiring, there was only static coming from the earpieces, until at last Duck sighed in defeat.

“I was really hoping this could work,” Duck moped, taking a seat with her head in her hands as she looked ruefully at the crude radio set. “Did we do something wrong?”

Fakir studied the diagram again, but after double-checking everything, nothing appeared to be amiss.

Putting the pamphlet back on the table, Fakir pulled out the chair across from Duck and took a seat. “It might be that this building is in a bad spot and the radio can’t pick up the signals. The way someone explained it to me was that radio is a type of sound; if you’re in the wrong place and the sound is blocked off, you won’t be able to hear it. There probably isn’t a way to fix this…at least, not with what we have.”

“I see…” The corner of Duck’s lips twitched, and it was apparent the explanation did little to assuage her disappointment.

As Fakir saw her downcast, an idea came to him, and he said quickly, “The radio may not have worked out, but you can come listen to my Victrola instead. With radios you have to listen to whatever other people decide to broadcast, but with a phonograph you can listen to whatever music you like.”

Duck gasped, and her head perked up. “Really? Are you sure, though? I mean…” The shop girl looked down at the table. Staring at nothing in particular, she said sheepishly, “…I don’t want to bother you during your time off.”

Watching her coy expression, Fakir’s heart skipped a beat and he added, “No, it’s fine! I don’t mind—I, uh...” The words on the tip of his tongue made Fakir blush, and he couldn't brush off the feeling that he was about to sound like a sap. But their mutual confession had given him a source of newfound courage, and he said quietly, “…being with you is never a bother.”

Seeing Fakir flustered, Duck couldn’t help but let out a small giggle. “Thank you, Fakir…” Watching her companion, who was blushing even redder now, Duck smiled, her cheeks dimpling. “…I’d really like that.”

Watching her smile, the bubble of joy that had been growing in his chest expanded until his lips too, were pushed up into a smile. The sun streaming in through the window seemed even brighter, and the birds’ chirping sounded sweeter than they had been just hours earlier. Though he couldn’t explain why this was so, the usually stoic detective knew he would not trade this feeling for the world.

 _Autor once said that I turned into a fool when I’m around Duck. Maybe he was right,_ Fakir thought as he rose to help Duck take down the uncooperative radio set. _But I would rather be a fool with her, than a wise man without her._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confession scenes are so hard to write, but it’s finally done! Now I can write all the fun, lovey-dovey stuff that comes after! XD 
> 
> *As Autor pointed out, the discovery and wide-spread publicity of King Tutankhamun’s tomb in 1923 led to a wave of Egyptomania in the US and Europe, with a renewed interest in Egyptian art, history, and design in popular culture. As for carnelian, there are many different meanings associated with the stone, ranging from creativity, to luck, to protection, etc. In ancient Egyptian culture, carnelians, due to their colors, were closely associated with the sun. According to some of the crystal energy websites I perused, carnelians were supposedly associated with fertility, and you guessed it, red carnelian symbolized male reproductive energy. Funny how Edel never mentioned that one to poor Fakir… 
> 
> *October 4th, 2002 was the airdate for the first Fakir-centric episode of the Princess Tutu anime, “The Warrior’s Fountain”. Granted that while Fakir was not very likeable during that episode, his character development really took off in the subsequent storyline. As a nod to that episode, I’ve made October 4th Fakir’s birthday in this story.
> 
> *Hal’s Ballroom is a nod to HAL Film Makers, the animation studio that created Princess Tutu. Sadly, the studio closed in 2009. Regarding taxi dance halls, in the early 1920’s, many dance schools converted into taxi dance halls (i.e. dance halls that operated on a ticket-a-dance basis), as the latter proved to be highly popular during a time when traditional dance schools were struggling to attract students. In traditional dance schools, students were not allowed to choose a female instructor to practice with. In taxi dance halls, however, “instructors” were free to dance with anyone, so long as that person had purchased tickets for that particular dance hall. Some dance schools adopted the ticket-a-dance system to stay in business, and still offered instruction to their clients on dancing (though the amount of actual teaching probably varied wildly, depending on the proprietors and the clientele). But many taxi dance halls did not provide any instructions, and as anyone who could pay to dance was welcome, they also became notorious for attracting riffraff and hoodlums who effectively paid to spend time with female company. 
> 
> *Do-it-yourself crystal radio kits were very popular in the 1920’s. They were a far cheaper alternative for the average American family than buying a commercial radio set, as it could be made with everyday household items and required no electrical input for power (the power came from the radio signals the kit picked up). A common type of early DIY crystal radio was the quick oats radio set—so called because quick oats brands at the time would offer DIY kits in exchange for coupons and/or a small amount of cash, and the radios themselves could be constructed from emptied quick oats cans. I had done a Google search and looked at some of the instructions for making crystal radios. Maybe it’s because I’ve forgotten everything on electromagnetism from college physics class, but it wasn’t entirely straightforward how to put one of these together, so I can only imagine how confusing it must have been for Duck and Fakir.
> 
> Thanks to Tomoyo Ichijouji for proofreading!


	6. Chapter 6

With a light hop and a skip, Duck stepped onto the sidewalk from the intersection in front of the Kotin Pointe Shoe Shop. Up ahead, Fakir had paused to wait for her before they—side-by-side, as always—walked the last few feet to the door of the shop.

“My agenda's on the light side today,” Fakir began, his hands in his jacket pockets. “Assuming I don’t get any new cases, we can walk back together this evening.” Here the seasoned detective’s face flushed involuntarily, drawing a smile onto Duck’s face.

Despite having confessed their mutual feelings to each other scarcely two days ago, Duck had already noticed a change in Fakir. He looked happier (or at the very least, less grouchy, given that Fakir’s default expression was an indifferent frown) and there was a lightness in his movement, as if a weight had been taken off his shoulders.

For Duck, too, it felt as though a thick shroud of anxiety around her had lifted. Inhaling a breath of fresh morning air, Duck nodded with contentment. “I’d like that,” she grinned and the gesture drew out a rare matching smile to Fakir’s face.

“I will see you, then.” Fakir turned as though he was about to leave, but then stopped.

Duck watched him with puzzlement as his brows knitted together, and he quickly glanced around them. Just as Duck was about to ask him what was wrong, Fakir leaned in—and before Duck had time to blink, planted a feather-light kiss on her cheek.

By the time the kiss had registered in Duck’s brain, Fakir—his ears burning—had already absconded down the street.

Left standing there on her own, Duck touched her warm cheek, her fingertips retracing the spot where Fakir’s lips had made contact with her skin. A public display of affection was the last thing she expected from such a reserved person like him. But like many of the assumptions she had about Fakir since their initial meeting, she was proven wrong yet again.

Fakir’s impulsive act made Duck smile, and she mused how she was still discovering different sides of him, even after having known him all this time.

“Love-love-love-love! Fakir kissed Duck-zura!”

The sudden eruption of a child’s sing-song voice accompanied by the loud tapping of drums nearly sent Duck shooting out of her stockings. “Gawh!” She let out a hoarse yelp.

She pivoted around to see Zurab behind her, still beating rhythmically on his toy drum.

“Zurab! What are you doing here?!” Duck gasped as she clutched her shirt, trying to keep her heart from exploding out of her chest. Above her hand, the carnelian pendant from Fakir had slipped out from inside her blouse and was now shining brightly under the sunlight.

“Zurab saw Fakir kiss Duck, zura! Does that mean Fakir and Duck are lovey-dovey—mhmm?” The toddler started to ask, but Duck managed to pick up the little boy and cover his mouth.

“Shh! Zurab, don’t say that out loud!” Duck whispered desperately.

But Duck’s plea seemed to have come too late, as Lillie’s shudderingly saccharine voice erupted, “Oh my goodness gracious, did I just hear what I thought I heard?!”

Before Duck could respond, her two friends were at Duck’s shoulders, with giant Cheshire Cat grins on their faces.

“So, it _is_ true, then! You and our Sheik are an item!” Pique exclaimed.

“Oh, you must tell me all the details, Duck!” Lillie, with her hands cupped around Duck’s beet red face, pulled the auburn girl forward until Duck could practically see the twinkling stars in Lillie’s baby-blue eyes. “Did he carry you off to an exotic abode, perfumed with rose petals and illuminated by candlelight, and profess his eternal love for you?”

“Have you two been petting? Or could it be that you’ve already been necking and spooning?” Pique wiggled her brows salaciously as she gave Duck a toothy grin.*

Pulling herself away from her friends, Zurab still hanging from her arms, Duck shook her head vehemently. “ _No!_ W-We haven’t done any petting, necking, or spooning either!” she exclaimed, even though she had no idea exactly what ‛spooning’ entailed. “Fakir and I are… we’re…!”

Looking back at the pointe shoe shop, Duck tried to divert the topic. “We really ought to get to work! M-Mr. Kotin is going to be here any minute!”

“Oh, don’t worry about him!” Lillie waved her hand dismissively. “His attention has been elsewhere these last few weeks!”

“Exactly! Mr. Kotin has barely been in the store lately,” Pique echoed as she unlocked the shop door. “I don’t think we’ve seen him for longer than half the day since he started seeing Miss Anna!”

“Still…” Duck responded weakly, walking towards the shop before she remembered she was still holding onto Zurab.

“Oh! Sorry, Zurab!” The flustered shop girl apologized as she set the little boy back down.

Once his feet were on solid ground again, the mint-haired child asked, “Duck says not to say Fakir love-love out loud, zura. But can Zurab tell Dieda, zura?”

“Um…” Duck chewed her lip.

Inside, she was still terribly embarrassed by her friends’ reactions. But Duck had known Edel for most of her life, and the only secret Duck had ever kept from the jewelry storekeeper was her involvement in the Corvo case.

Edel had been like a mother to her for so many years, and as embarrassed as she was about this, Duck did want to share her newfound joy with those closest to her. Edel was also a quiet and mindful woman, and Duck knew she would never do anything to make her uncomfortable.

With that thought in mind, she whispered, “Only to Miss Edel, okay, Zurab?”

Zurab gave a firm nod before turning around, tapping on his toy drum, and singing, “Love-love-love-love!” all the way back to the Stein Jewelry Store.

Duck exhaled a breath of relief when Zurab finally disappeared from view. Slipping back into the pointe shoe shop, the red-head looked Pique’s way when she called out, “Hey, Duck, Mr. Kotin left a note for us!”

“A note?” Duck asked as Pique handed her a small piece of stationary. On it were two short sentences written in their employer’s tidy cursive script:

_Miss Pique, Miss Lillie, and Miss Duck,_

_I will be away for an important appointment all day today. Please watch over the shop in my absence._

_Yours truly,_

_Vaslav Kotin_

Looking back at her friends, Duck wondered aloud, “I wonder what his meeting is for…he didn’t mention anything about this last week.”

“Maybe he’s going to ask Miss Anna to marry him! They might even elope!” Lillie quipped as she and Pique giggled.

Duck made a doubtful expression, but before she could ask where Mr. Kotin might elope to, a woman walked into the shop and asked if she could arrange a pointe shoe fitting.

Lillie, who was closest to the door, went to help the customer with her inquiry, leaving Duck and Pique at the counter where their purses still sat on the table. Glancing at her friends’ purses, Duck caught sight of a green cloth-back book peeking out from the top of Pique’s bag.

 _Gregg Shorthand_ , Duck read the title to herself, and then asked her friend, “Pique, what’s that book about?”*

Pique looked down at her bag. “Oh, this? Here,” she said, handing the book to Duck, who promptly flipped through it.

Instead of being a novel or biography as she had assumed the title to imply, the book was filled with pages and pages of abstract dashes and curves, along with instructions on how to use them.

Seeing Duck’s confusion, Pique explained, “Remember that Mrs. Ryan I met a few weeks ago? I leveled with her and told her that being a secretary seemed awfully mundane, and I didn’t see why someone would need any sort of special training just to take notes. Mother wasn’t so happy with me for being so blunt, but Mrs. Ryan didn’t seem to take offense. She said being a successful secretary actually requires several specialized skills, such as the usage of shorthand. I didn’t have a good idea of what that was, so she lent me this book she had used when she was a Gibbs girl.”

“So it’s a manual for dictation?” Duck asked, closing the book and handing it back to Pique, who nodded.

“It’s pretty interesting, actually! You know me, I like things that are fun. All this code and shorthand business reminds me of those dime novels about spies and intrigue, and secret diaries that lead to hidden treasure,” Pique giggled coyly. “Just reading the text on its own is a bit confusing, but I figure if I practice using the shorthand symbols, it’ll all make a little more sense. Since business here has been slow, I thought I might as well bring the book here to review them during our down time.”

The upbeat mood on Pique’s face contrasted with the solemn expression on Duck’s. She watched her friend set the book down on the counter, and then asked quietly, “Are you considering finding another job, then, Pique?”

At this, Pique shrugged. Looking at Duck, the stylish young woman replied, “Not exactly, no. It’s grand being here with you and Lillie, but if something real swell turns up…well, I wouldn’t mind taking a bat at it.”

“I see…that’s understandable,” Duck murmured.

The idea that Pique might leave one day came as a sudden shock to Duck. Pique and Lillie had started at this pointe shoe shop not long after Duck had started working here. After almost six years together, day in and day out, it was hard—if not impossible—for her to imagine working here without either one of them. 

Pique seemed to catch onto Duck’s trepidations, and patted the red-head playfully on the back. “Aw, don’t worry, Duck! I’m not planning to go anywhere anytime soon!”

Pique eyed the red pendant dangling by Duck’s shirt collar, and winked at Duck. “I’ll bet that’s from Fakir, isn’t it? He may not let it on, but I think he’s absolutely _wild_ about you! I’ll bet before long, the two of you will be raising a flock of ducklings together!”

“P-Pique!” Duck gasped, covering the pendant with her hand, while her violet-haired friend let out another fit of giggles.

Luckily for Duck, Lillie (who was still attending her client) turned to them and asked, “Can one of you help me get two pairs of shoes? One in white and one in pink?”

“Sure! What size do you need, ma’am?” Pique asked while she headed into the back, leaving Duck by the counter to help the customer with her fitting.

The comment from Pique lingered in Duck’s mind as she glanced down at the pendant cupped in her hand. _It’s far too soon to be thinking about children when Fakir and I have only just confessed to one another!_

Closing her fingers over the pendant, Duck was about to drop the necklace back underneath her shirt. But the question Zurab asked her earlier came to mind, and Duck’s hand stilled. With everyone close to her now aware of her relationship with Fakir, what was the harm in publicly wearing the pendant he gave her?

 _I like him, and he likes me. That’s all there is to it,_ Duck mused, and allowed the pendant to fall back onto the front of her blouse. As she looked out through the shop windows, Duck sighed contently and headed toward Lillie and the customer to obtain the desired measurements.

_It’s impossible to say what the future will bring. I just have to take it one step at a time…_

* * *

Not long after the clock struck five, Duck waved goodbye to Pique and Lillie, who were both still under curfew and had to return home straight away after work. Left on her own, Duck was in the process of locking up the shop when a familiar figure peered around the corner and walked towards her.

“Oh, Fakir, you made it!” Duck smiled when she caught sight of the detective.

“I was lucky today; there were no new cases,” Fakir answered, catching sight of the red pendant hanging daintily below Duck’s collar. A smile came unwittingly to his lips and he nodded towards home. “Ready?”

With a nod from Duck, the two of them set out towards Lake Avenue. Walking for a time in silence, Duck glanced at Fakir shyly and said, “Um, Zurab saw us this morning when you, well, you know…now everyone at the shop knows about us…”

Fakir, his mouth pulling into a long frown, couldn’t stifle a groan. This was the price for being impulsive, he supposed. Yet, in the same measure, Fakir found he felt no regret sneaking in a quick kiss from Duck.

The detective shook his head. _It’s not like we’re Romeo and Juliet!_ _If Duck was still a witness for the Corvo case, that’d be a different matter. But all of that is behind us now,_ Fakir thought as he turned to face Duck.

“Somehow, I’m not surprised…” The corners of Fakir’s lips twitched with annoyance. However, he shrugged and continued, “Still, I guess people are bound to find out at some point or another.”

Hearing this, Duck smiled a little, evidently reassured. Stealing another glance at him, she whispered, “Say, Fakir…do you know what ‘spooning’ means?”

Fakir stopped dead in his tracks and stared at Duck, aghast. “N-No, of course not!” he burst out, even though from the way he was blushing, the truth was obviously to the contrary. “Why are you asking _this_ all of a sudden?”

Duck blushed, making her freckles stand out against the bright pink of her skin. “Pique and Lillie were teasing me earlier, asking if we had been ‘spooning’. I didn’t know what the word meant…but I thought you might know.”

Sighing, Fakir said under his breath, “Maybe it’s better if I don’t come by the shop in the future…”

“Eh? Why not?” Duck insisted, her small hands balling into fists.

Watching her face, Fakir rubbed the back of his neck and explained, “The way your friends fawn over me reminds me of an old woman who used to live across the street from my aunt and uncle’s house in Nordlingen. She would spy on the neighborhood through her draperies, chatting up anyone who passed her way, and always seemed to know what everyone was up to. It just makes me…uncomfortable,” he admitted.

Upon hearing this, Duck couldn’t help but feel a little offended for her friends; but at the same time, she sympathized with Fakir. The way Pique and Lillie gushed whenever he was around would make anyone who wasn’t immune to their antics feel awkward.

“Well, all right then,” Duck reluctantly agreed as they continued towards home. “We can meet at Mrs. Ebine’s bakery instead. I walk by there all the time, and her breads are the best!”

Hearing this, Fakir couldn’t resist teasing her. “Somehow, I’m not surprised you’d choose a bakery.”

“It’s true, though!” Duck retorted. “They’re so tasty, you don’t even need to spread butter on them!”

Fakir stifled a laugh, which earned him a dirty look from Duck. But the red-head’s ill temper didn’t last, as they soon settled back down into a peaceful stroll, their elbows close yet not quite touching.

Her mind at ease in the presence of familiar people and places, Duck thought back to what Fakir had said earlier, and wondered aloud, “Say, Fakir, what’s Nordlingen like? It’s where you met Mytho, and where you both grew up, right? Is it very different from here?”

Fakir considered this question for a moment. After a short pause, he answered, “Well, it’s a much smaller place than New York City, or even the Bronx, that’s for sure. But it’s not entirely rural either, as there are a few trains that pass through town and there’s a decently busy downtown area adjacent to the railroad tracks. There’s a lot of fields and trees at the edge of town that give way to farmland. Even the buildings downtown, where my uncle’s family lives, are smaller and aren’t so closely packed together like they are here.”

“You said there are fields. Are there a lot of wildflowers, then? In paintings and postcards, there’s always lots of wildflowers in the fields and meadows.”

“In the spring, yes, if there’s been rain and plenty of sunshine,” Fakir’s eyes softened as memories of fields studded with yellow Black-eye Susans, white daisies, lilac bluehearts, and blue cornflowers came to mind.

An idea came to him. He turned to Duck and asked, “Do you want to go see it someday…um, Duck?”

Fakir blinked when he realized he was talking to an empty spot on the pavement. Spinning around, he discovered the auburn-haired girl had been sidetracked, and was now standing in the doorway of a small flower shop with the sign “Freya’s Flowers” over it.

Sighing, Fakir followed her as he reflected on his earlier idea to bring Duck to Nordlingen. _Maybe it’s a little early to take her home and introduce her to the people there. There’s no need to rush into things…_

As Fakir walked closer, he could overhear the conversation between Duck and the blonde proprietor of the flower shop, who was in the middle of saying, “…There should still be anemones in bloom in late October. When would you need them by, dear? And do you only want pink ones?”

“October 24th,” Duck answered. “And if at all possible, I’d like to have pink ones, like the ones here,” Duck pointed to a bouquet of paper-wrapped pink anemone flowers for sale by the door. “If those aren’t available, pink carnations will do.”

“Of course! I will make a note of it. Come by a few days before you need them, and I will let you know if the anemones are available.”

Fakir watched as Duck thanked the tall shopkeeper and bounded back towards him. “Sorry, Fakir! I saw the shop selling pink anemones, so I stopped to see if they would still have them later in October!”

“What’s happening on October 24th?” Fakir wondered aloud as they stopped at the last intersection before Lake Avenue.

Duck’s usually bubbly expression sobered, but she managed to answer with a wan smile, “It’s the anniversary of Ma’s passing. Pink anemone was her favorite flower*, and I try to bring some of them when I visit her. But depending on the weather, they’re not always available this late in the year, so I’ll ask a couple of different shops in the area to see if one of them can find some for me.”

Here, she laughed with embarrassment. “Of course, it doesn’t always pan out! I was out of luck last year, so I brought her carnations instead. I want to start asking around earlier this year, though. Hopefully that’ll give me a better chance at finding anemones this time around!”

“That’s a lot of work for a single bouquet of flowers,” Fakir remarked.

“I know…” Duck looked down at her feet, a touch of melancholy entering her voice. “…But even though Ma’s gone, I still want to make her happy. Even if it’s something as small as bringing along her favorite flowers…”

Duck’s eyes darted up when she felt Fakir take her hand. In front of them, the traffic light had turned green and the detective gently led her across the street to the other side.

Once Duck had firmly set foot on the opposite curb, while still holding her hand, Fakir said to her, “I’m sure your mother would be happy no matter what kind of flowers you brought. Just the fact that you still love her and think of her is enough. At least,” the detective stopped, then cleared his throat awkwardly, “that’s what I think, anyway…”

Despite Fakir’s diffidence, a smile returned to Duck’s lips. She let out a short laugh and replied, “Actually, I think you’re right on the money! If Ma was here, she’d definitely say the type of flower, or for that matter having _any_ sort of flowers, wasn’t important.”

The corners of Fakir’s lips tugged upward into a soft smile. As they walked the remaining short distance to their building, shoulders touching and hand-in-hand, the detective offered, “If you want, I can also ask around at the flower shops around the precinct. The odds should be better if we’re both keeping a lookout.”

“I’d like that. Thank you, Fakir,” Duck smiled at the dark-haired man. 

In that moment, the idea seemed to finally sink in. This man—sometimes insufferable, oftentimes stubborn, but always deeply caring—loved her, of all people. Though Duck still could not quite fathom how it had all worked out, his presence made her happy, and despite their constant bantering, she was content.

Watching the sun sink into the horizon, Duck’s thoughts returned to her mother. “I wish you could’ve met Ma…” Duck sighed wistfully. “She would’ve really liked you, I’m sure!”

“Me as well,” Fakir gave Duck’s hand a gentle tug, directing her eyes to his. With a playful air, he smirked, “But you look so much like her, I just imagine she’s a more mature, refined, and elegant version of you.”

This got the reaction Fakir was anticipating from Duck, who lightly boxed him on the arm with her hand. “Jerk!”

She puffed up her cheeks in a pout, but continued holding onto Fakir’s hand until they were standing in front of the front entrance to their building.

As a still-smiling Fakir stepped up the short flight of stairs to open the door, the sudden sensation of someone looming up behind her made Duck spin around sharply. As Duck scanned the stream of pedestrians in the evening gloom, though, it was impossible to tell which of the huddled figures had alarmed her.

With the hair on her neck still standing on ends, Duck pursed her lips as she quickly stepped into the building behind Fakir, keeping one eye trained on the street until the door pane closed behind her.

Duck tilted her head up towards Fakir. The detective appeared not to have noticed anything amiss, and his calm mien helped to ease the tension in Duck’s stomach. Touching her chest and feeling the cool carnelian pendant under her palm, the shop girl took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

 _It’s just my imagination again…_ Duck quickly reassured herself and closed her fingers over the red stone.

* * *

On a quiet Wednesday afternoon, Fakir’s feet stopped in front of the brightly painted sign of Hal’s Ballroom. Stepping into the building, Fakir heard the bright sound of a band playing behind a set of double doors at the far end of a swanky lobby area.

He watched as another patron walked up to a counter next to the double doors and placed a half dollar down on the wood countertop. The coin was quickly shuttled away by the bored-looking cashier, who handed the man five tickets printed with the dance hall’s name.

Once the patron had shuffled away, Fakir walked up to the counter and asked, “Do you know if an Annie Grant is working today?”

The cashier shrugged. “The name sounds familiar. But my job only involves handling money and counting tickets. I don’t keep track of the comings and goings of anyone here.” Looking pointedly at Fakir, he said, “But you’re more than welcome to find out. Just a dime will get you in.”

The corners of Fakir’s mouth ticked in annoyance. As he reached into his pocket, the detective thought it over for a second before emptying his wallet, which included a five-dollar bill and a few scattered coins, on the counter.

The cashier gave Fakir a cockeyed look from behind his round glasses, before turning to the side and laboriously counting out exactly fifty-seven tickets.

“There you are. Enjoy your dances, sir.”

Fakir picked up the tickets, and ignoring the cashier’s prying eyes, reached for the double doors.

As soon as the ballroom doors opened, the detective was assailed by the simultaneous bombardment of loud music and the odor of dozens of warm bodies crammed into an enclosed space. After depositing his hat and coat at the cloakroom, Fakir loitered on the edge of the dance floor where—despite it being a weekday afternoon—dozens of couples were swaying to the music.

“Looking for a partner, Partner?” a flirtatious female voice asked beside him and Fakir found an attractive young blonde smiling at him.

Straightening his back, Fakir said coolly, “I was referred here to see a specific instructor named Annie Grant for dance lessons. Could you point her out to me?” he asked, and at the same time held out a dance ticket to the eager taxi dancer.

The woman raised a neatly trimmed brow, but said nothing as she casually accepted the ticket. Motioning towards the rows of chairs a few feet away, the blonde taxi dancer said, “The gal you want is the brunette sitting at the end there, the one in the blue dress.”

“Thank you,” Fakir said briskly, and threaded his way through the rows of chairs toward the aforementioned lone woman, who was sitting and smoking a cigarette.

As he stopped next to the woman in the blue dress, she looked up. She was a tall woman about Fakir’s height, with wavy chestnut brown hair and a beautifully well-proportioned face. It was easy to see why Autor’s coworker would have found her attractive.

For Fakir, on the other hand, the bigger question was how much she would talk about the person who had threatened to kill him and Duck. Luckily, Annie had no idea those were his true intentions, and so she pushed a well-practiced smile to her painted red lips as their eyes met.

“Hello there! Just let me finish this and I’ll be right with you,” Annie said smoothly.

“Of course,” Fakir nodded. “You are Miss Grant, I presume?”

This question drew a curious and wary glance from Annie, who took one last puff on her cigarette before rubbing out the stub in the ashtray next to her chair. “I am. May I ask whom do I have the honor of dancing with today, and how did you hear about me?” she asked. She extended a manicured hand toward Fakir to accept the dance ticket he was holding out to her, and they walked in tandem onto the dance floor.

Given the circumstances, Fakir had decided in advance it would be unwise to give his real name. As he held Annie’s silky-smooth hand, the detective answered, “My name is Frank. I’m interested in getting some dance lessons before an event I will be attending. A friend of a friend recommended you as an instructor, so I thought I’d swing by and have a go.”

“What kind of event, if you don’t mind me asking?” Annie smiled as she draped her other hand over Fakir’s shoulder. Her smile curled a little higher when Fakir’s hand lightly touched her shoulder blade as the band began to play the next tune.

“A wedding,” Fakir answered, going by the mental script he had prepared ahead of time.

“A friend’s wedding or a family member’s,” she inquired as they began a casual dance in time to the music. 

“A friend’s.”

“A good friend’s?”

“More of an acquaintance, actually.”

“Oh? Must be a very good acquaintance, then, for him to invite you to his wedding,” Annie teased, but Fakir’s face remained cool and unreadable.

Shifting topics, she let their feet take them around the dance floor as she asked lightly, “For someone looking for lessons, you are actually quite a good dancer. I’m not sure if there is much I can teach an advanced student like you.”

“I’m familiar with the waltz, but not so much with the more popular dance steps nowadays,” Fakir confessed as the brief song drew to a close, and he let go of Annie’s hand and shoulder.

“I’m fairly confident in my ability to dance a good foxtrot,” the taxi dancer responded coquettishly. “Shall we have a go?”

Fakir responded with a short nod, and Annie drew herself close to him as another upbeat tune was belted out by the band.

“The difference between a waltz and foxtrot is simple, really,” Annie explained, glancing down at their feet. “Waltz is smooth, gliding across the floor like a bird in flight. Foxtrot is quick and eager. You take two slow steps, then two quick steps, like so. That’s it—you’re a fast learner, Frank! See, it’s a casual and fun type of dance.” Annie’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “It’s good for dances between acquaintances and lovers alike.”

But this bit of teasing once again failed to get a reaction out of the stone-faced Fakir. Sensing her dance partner’s stoicism, Annie exhaled softly. “Say, Frank, are you spoken for?”

This unexpected and blunt question made Fakir jerk, and his eyes briefly met Annie’s before he looked away.

But Annie had gotten what she was looking for, and her thin brows furrowed even as she continued to smile. “You’re not the first visitor I know of who came here, claiming to be practicing for one event or another, but most of the people who give that explanation end up coming back again and again. Those are usually lonely men, either seeking companionship or poor souls stuck in loveless marriages.

“On the other hand, you’re the first who’s been so—how shall I say it? Detached? For a man to be this removed when he dances with a woman can only mean his heart belongs to someone other than his dance partner.”

Annie scrutinized Fakir’s face as she whispered, “So why are you here, Frank? What are we _really_ dancing around for?”

As the music swelled to a climax, Fakir knew his ruse was up. He replied obliquely, “I’m here for business.”

But this last word fully raised Annie’s hackles and she stopped mid-step. “By ‘business’ I don’t suppose you mean _professional_ business?”*

Around them, other couples shuffled about as the song ended. Partners were exchanged and tired dancers moved off the dance floor. Walking off towards the sideline, Fakir said to Annie, “I believe I owe you a ticket?”

Hearing his non-answer, Annie crossed her arms and the two of them stopped behind a post, away from the eyes and ears of the other dancers and patrons in the dance hall.

Reaching into his pocket, Fakir held out the remaining tickets he had purchased to the tall brunette, whose eyes opened wide at the thick bundle of dance tickets being offered to her.

“There’s at least fifty of these and should be worth about a typical day’s worth of dances for you. They’re all yours if you can tell me about a death threat to the local police force that you overheard a few weeks ago. Who was the person who made the threat, and what exactly did that person say to you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Annie answered quickly. But Fakir was not so easily dissuaded, as this was the typical type of response he got in his line of work.

Thumbing through the dance tickets in his hand, the detective noticed Annie glancing at them. Thinking quickly, he said, “Well, that’s too bad, then. I’ll go refund these.” So saying, he began to put the tickets back in his pocket.

But before he could turn away, Annie let out a fake little laugh, “Oh, you mean _that_ business! I recall now! There was a fella who was being a monkey-chaser* one day, trying to ask for my number even after I told him I didn’t have one, and he wouldn’t take no for an answer. So I made up a little bit of a scary story about knowing a man who wanted to torpedo the police, and that scared him enough to send him on his way. I never thought the little story I cooked up would be taken so seriously!” she concluded with a brittle smile.

But the detective was not buying any of it. Quietly, he said, “That’s fine, but you mentioned some very specific names when you told this fella your story. Names that only people in the know are privy to. How do you explain that?”

As Annie had been caught in her own lie, her smile vanished, and Fakir could see the agitation in her body language as she chewed on her lips and refused to meet his gaze.

After a moment, she wordlessly stalked towards a closed side door at the other end of the dance hall. Fakir followed her, and they exited into a quiet fenced-in alley between the dance hall and the next building over. Once the door had closed behind them, Annie pulled out a cigarette and began lighting and puffing on it.

Not bothering with her sweet hostess façade, Annie gave Fakir a hard sideways glare as she snapped, “You coppers are such a tiresome bunch, Frank. Fine, I’ll tell you what I know, but only if you promise my name won’t get dragged into all this.”

“Of course,” Fakir agreed quickly. “You have my word.”

Taking a long draft on her cigarette, Annie began, “The man who made the threat…his real name is Tony, but on the streets, he goes by Worm Tongue.”

“Worm Tongue?” the detective echoed this strange nickname.

“He got that name because he has a bad lisp. It makes him sound like a snake when he talks,” Annie explained impatiently.

 _He had a lisp…_ The voice of Eddie Corioli suddenly echoed in Fakir’s head.

Fakir frowned and asked, “A lisp? Is he tall by any chance?”

“Very. I’d say he’s at least 6’7” to 6’9” or so. I’m 5’7” and one of the few girls who can dance with him and not make it look like a vaudeville act. He has a long, narrow face, and it looked like God put too small of a head on too big of a body. That’s probably one of the reasons why he used to come here; we will dance with any fella as long as they’ve got a ticket on ‘em. Speaking of which,” Annie stuck out her hand to Fakir, “I’ve done my part of the deal. It’s time for you to hold up your end of the bargain.”

Keeping his excitement at this bombshell information in check, Fakir reached his hand into his pocket but did not take the tickets out. “You haven’t told me what exactly he said to you yet. Also, what do you know about his connections to the Corvos? You’ve been using past tense when talking about him. When was the last time you saw him, and do you know where I might be able to find him?”

Annie groaned and took another long draft on her cigarette. Exhaling a cloud of gray smoke, she exclaimed, “Oh, God! I give you an answer, and you give me four more questions! You are a real damned prick, you know that, Frank?”

For the first time since he set foot inside the dance hall, Fakir smiled. “I’ve been told that, yes.”

Seeing that Fakir wasn’t going to budge, Annie’s voice dipped even lower, so much so that he had to step towards her to hear what she had to say. “Yes, he used to work for the Corvos. He was just a lowly lackey, but he took it all real seriously. He used to come by here at least once a week to dance, but after the whole Corvo business blew up, he stopped coming. Then, about two months ago, he suddenly showed up again, out of the blue…”

Here, Annie gulped. “…I thought he came to dance, as usual, but right away I knew something wasn’t right. He was furious. Not just a little angry, but in a real rage.

“Now, I’ve had plenty of other fellas empty their hearts on me over a dance. ‘It comes with the ticket’, as we say around here. So I asked him what was wrong. He began ranting about how the police set up his boss, how he was gonna get back at them, especially the one police fella named Fakia or some-such, as well as the witness who set his boss up. He was gonna find a torpedo to help him get revenge on them.* I tried acting sweet towards him to calm him down and lighten the mood, but then Tony started cursing at me, saying a dumb broad like me didn’t know anything.”

Annie inhaled deeply on her cigarette, her thin brows drew together as she recalled the incident. “He grabbed me by the arm and I thought he was going to hit me. By then, he was screaming and making a huge scene. Lucky for me, a couple of our boys stepped in before things got out of hand. They escorted him out, and I haven’t seen him since.”

“Did Tony say what the witness’s name was?” Fakir asked urgently, but to his relief, Annie shook her head.

Lowering her cigarette, she implored, “You need to understand, Frank, me and the other girls here, all we do is dance and listen to whatever spiel our guests want to say. We don’t ask them hard or probing questions. So, no, I don’t know where he is, or where you might find him. Heck, if that nasty lowlife disappeared off the face of this Earth, all the better!”

“I understand,” Fakir acknowledged. Much as he wanted to keep pressing her for information, Annie had told him more than enough for the time being. The possibility that the prime suspect in the Corioli case and Worm Tongue might be one and the same got Fakir’s heart racing, and he knew he wanted to speak to Charon right away about this new finding .

Fakir duly handed the tickets to Annie. As she closed her hand over the stack of dance tickets, another question came to Fakir’s mind and he asked, “Before you go, why did he tell you all this?”

Snatching the tickets away, Annie whipped her head around toward the door, sending chestnut-colored curls swaying with her movement. She took one last draft on the cigarette before dropping it to the ground and rubbed it out with her heel. Despite her crossed arms, Annie's vulnerable posture made Fakir feel a pang of concern for the smooth-talking taxi dancer who might have found herself caught up in a nefarious plot.

“God knows! I suppose he was rather taken by me. I’m close to his height, and I willingly danced with and talked with him. But that’s just part of my job. And even then, no one gave him leave to treat me the way he did!” Annie pressed her hand tensely to her chest.

Catching Fakir’s gaze, the taxi dancer entreated, “You mustn’t let my name get out there, Frank! I don’t know if what he said to me was only crazy-talk; he might’ve been fried on hooch that day, for all I could see!

“Just take it from me: Tony is a vicious man. He might’ve been just a lackey, but he was damn good at what he did, and that was making people regret ever crossing the Corvos. Wherever he is, Worm Tongue is still around somewhere, and I don’t want to be on the receiving end of his wrath.”

“Rest assured, protecting your identity will be a top priority for us during this investigation,” Fakir reassured Annie. Thinking back to Duck, and all of the dangers and threats she had to endure, he said earnestly, “I will not let any harm come to you as a result of this.”

* * *

After leaving Hal’s Ballroom, Fakir made a beeline back to the precinct and immediately reported the information he had gleaned from Annie to Charon.

“Worm Tongue? That name sounds familiar…” Charon said through pursed lips, brows knitted together in thought. Fakir sat across from the captain, watching him expectantly. “I seem to recall a suspect in a robbery case a few years ago with that odd-sounding nickname, but what was his last name again? Oh, I must be getting old. Let’s ask Johnny; he ought to remember.” 

A few minutes later, the short figure of Johnny from the Robbery division poked his head into the captain’s office.

“You were looking for me, Captain?”

“Yes. Fakir and I were wondering, does the name ‘Worm Tongue’ ring a bell to you?”

“Oh! Does it ever!” the short man yipped. “There was an armed robbery case from five years ago. One of the neighbors reported the break-in, and we managed to surround the robbers before they could get away; Worm Tongue was one of them. He put up quite a fight and nearly knocked one of the boys’ heads open before we finally managed to get cuffs on him!”

“We believe his first name is Tony. Do you by any chance know what his last name is?” Fakir inquired.

“Sure do!” Johnny grinned confidently. “I was the one who took his statement after he was brought in five years ago. Real unpleasant fella, by the way. As for his last name, it’s Vermi. If you don’t mind me asking, how did his name turn up in your neck of the woods, Fakir?”

After several more hours of discussions with Johnny and Charon, Fakir was beginning to paint a better picture of his prime suspect. As the clock on the wall ticked towards nine in the evening, Fakir at last gathered his belongings to go home, but not before scanning the notes he’d taken one last time.

Anthony “Worm Tongue” Vermi. 36 years old. He had multiple convictions for assault, robbery, attempted robbery, theft, and bootlegging, and had been in and out of prison for much of his adult life. It was believed many of his crimes were jobs carried out on behalf of the Corvos.

His last known address was several years old, but everyone had agreed it was worth checking if Worm Tongue still resided there, and if he had moved, to locate the new residence. Copies of Worm Tongue’s mugshot would be produced in hopes that residents and patrol officers in the areas Worm Tongue was known to frequent could identify him so he could be brought in for questioning.

Having read the last line of his notes, Fakir closed the notepad, but his hand lingered over the front cover. Taking a deep breath, Fakir told himself this was as much as he could do for today. A part of him wanted to keep going, keep riding the wave of adrenaline and excitement that a breakthrough in a case always brought him, but Fakir knew if he allowed himself to do that, he would end up running himself into the ground.

 _Worm Tongue may have been a Corvo man, but I will not make the same mistakes I did with that case,_ Fakir reminded himself, turning away from his desk. After bidding goodnight to the night shift officers, Fakir stepped down the stairs of the precinct entrance.

Though it was past closing time for most shops, Fakir’s eyes lingered on the various flower shops on his way home, keeping a mental tally of the ones he had or hadn’t visited in their quest for pink anemones. Before long, he found himself back on the corner of Lake Avenue, and his tired feet carried him up the steps to the floor he shared with Duck.

In front of his apartment door, Fakir was fishing about for the keys in his pocket when Duck’s door creaked open. “You’re back, Fakir!”

At the sound of her voice, Fakir turned sharply. “Is something wrong?” But the red-head quickly shook her head.

“Oh, everything’s fine!” Duck shook her head. “It’s just that I was waiting by Mrs. Ebine’s like we had agreed on, but you didn’t come by today, so I assumed you must’ve been busy.”

“Ah, I see…” Fakir scratched the back of his head. He had completely forgotten about meeting up with Duck today, having been so absorbed in the investigation on Worm Tongue. Apologetically, he said, “I hope you didn’t wait too long? Next time, if I’m not there by 5:30, just go home without me.”

Duck nodded quietly as Fakir returned to the task of unlocking his door. Watching him, her hands resting over her doorknob, Duck said, “I hope everything’s okay at the precinct? You haven’t been back this late in a while.”

“Everything was fine…well, better than fine, as far as police work can go, I suppose,” Fakir said as he finished unlocking his door and walked into his apartment. Stretching his stiff neck and feeling the pinch in his tired feet, he glanced at Duck and confided, “There was a bit more running around than usual today, and even some dancing thrown in for good measure as well.”

“Dancing?” Duck followed him into the hallway and watched from the front doorway as the detective removed his jacket. “Was it related to a case?”

Marching toward his bedroom, Fakir’s feet paused. The tall, faceless figure of Worm Tongue loomed large in Fakir’s mind. Fakir recalled the frightened expression on Annie’s face as she implored him to keep her identity a secret. The detective had seen Duck in the same situation before, and he questioned if it was worth making her constantly look over her shoulders when he didn’t even have a picture to tell her who to look out for.

 _Iggy is making copies of Worm Tongue’s mugshots, and we_ ’ _ll know what he looks like soon enough. Also, Annie may have mentioned my name, but it seems Worm Tongue doesn’t know who exactly the “witness” is. This means Duck should be safe for now,_ Fakir reasoned to himself as his feet continued to carry him to his bedroom. “…Um, yeah, it was. It was a bit of an unusual case,” Fakir said awkwardly.

Looking for something to do, he walked up to his Victrola and thumbed through the boxed stack of records he kept next to the phonograph. With thoughts of dancing and the echoes of big band music still on his mind, Fakir closed his fingers onto a mint-condition jazz record, its brown paper sleeve still crisp and smooth.

Placing the record on the Victrola, he waited until the first cord of lively jazz music reached his ears before turning to find Duck still standing quietly by his door, her head leaning in curiously to hear the music.

“You can come in to listen, you know.” Fakir said, then remembering they were alone and he was inviting an unmarried young woman into his home, added sheepishly, “Um, that is, if you want to, of course.”

Duck shrank back. “Are you sure? I mean, you must be tired and should get some rest…”

“I’m fine, don’t worry about me,” Fakir reassured her, and after giving him a small nod, Duck gingerly walked in.

Pulling over a chair from the dining table, she sat down and rested her arms on the back of the chair while Fakir walked into his bedroom, out of view. Listening contently, Duck asked, “Which song is this? I haven’t heard this one before.”

“It’s ‘I’ll See You in My Dreams’, by Fletcher Henderson’s Orchestra.* I heard it on the radio by chance and thought it sounded pretty swell, so I bought the record,” Fakir responded as he put his jacket inside his dresser.

“Oh!” Duck blinked in surprise. “I didn’t know you liked jazz.”

“It’s alright as far as music goes,” Fakir shrugged as he walked back to the bedroom door where Duck could see him. “I know some folks are up in arms over it, but I think it sounds fine, just something a little different.”

Hearing this, Duck smiled. She had assumed his taste in the arts was limited only to classical music and the occasional opera that his cousin Rachel goaded him into attending. But it seemed Fakir’s skills and interest in the performing arts were far more extensive than she had initially assumed.

Wanting to know more, she said, “Say, what kind of dances do you know, Fakir? You never did ballet like Mytho did, did you?”

Fakir huffed and looked over his shoulder at the red-head. “No, ballet was Mytho’s province! I know the waltz,” he said, thinking back to Annie’s compliment and a small grin appearing on his lips, “and supposedly, I’m pretty competent at the foxtrot as well.”

Duck rested her chin on her folded arms across the chair back and said sheepishly, “I’ve tried foxtrot before. Pique, Lillie and I have been to a few public dance halls, and they tried to teach me how to do the foxtrot and the tango, but I was terrible at it! I always ended up stepping on my partner’s toes. It was really embarrassing!”

Duck remembered her imagined pas de deux with Fakir, and she fancied an idea. Her face glowing with excitement, Duck announced it to the dark-haired detective. “Fakir…can you teach me how to dance the foxtrot?”

Hearing this unexpected request, Fakir glanced at the clock, which was edging close to ten. “Right now?”

“Oh!” Duck gasped, her eyes flying to the clock. “Obviously, it’s too late for that today! But maybe this weekend when you’re free? I promise I’ll try not to step on your feet!” she insisted.

Watching Duck flush with excited energy, the corner of Fakir’s mouth curved into a smile. With one hand resting on his waist, he said gamely, “Actually, I think I have enough energy for a quick lesson tonight.”

He stepped up to the Victrola and cranked up the gramophone before setting the needle back at the beginning of the record. As the music began to play anew, he extended a hand to Duck.

Seeing his outstretched hand, the eager enthusiasm from Duck suddenly faltered. She had not expected Fakir to follow through with her request so quickly, and so easily.

With the face of the clock on the wall now staring down at her judgmentally, Duck back-peddled, “Are you sure though? I-I was just thinking aloud, that’s all,” she murmured, her hands hovering close to her chest. “It really doesn’t have to be tonight!”

“I don’t mind,” Fakir responded offhandedly, then stepped forward and gently took Duck’s hand before guiding her from the chair to an open area of the dining room. “Shall we?” he asked, cradling her hand in the air.

“Um, alright, then,” Duck placed her hand gingerly on Fakir’s shoulder. Her breath hitched a little as she felt his hand pressed against her back.

Being so close together, she caught a whiff of the piquant odor of cigarettes lingering on his clothes, but also a deep, familiar aroma laying just beneath it. It took Duck a few seconds, but she recognized it as Fakir’s unique scent. The realization sent a rush of heat into Duck’s cheeks, but she inhaled deeply as she let herself settle into closed position.

“Let’s go through the basics. First, I’ll step forward with my left foot, and you’ll step back with your right foot,” Fakir explained as Duck slowly followed suit, her brows furrowed in concentration as she stared down at her feet. “Good. Step back with your left foot, yes, just like that. Now, step to the side with your right foot, and close with your left—Ow!”

Nervously, Duck had instead stepped forward with her left foot, and landed it squarely on her partner’s toes. Hearing Fakir’s yelp, she quickly let go of his hand and cupped her hand to her mouth.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Oh drat—and to think, I just said I would try _not_ to step on your feet! Are you alright?”

Waving his hand reassuringly, Fakir picked up Duck’s hand and said, “I’m fine. Let’s try this again.”

As they began their second attempt, Fakir kept an eye on Duck as she tried to follow his instructions. But scarcely a few steps into their dance, Duck’s heel once again landed on top of Fakir’s foot, bringing their dance to a grinding halt.

“Let’s just forget about it! It was a silly idea to begin with,” Duck protested, backing away.

 _I was never meant to be a dancer, after all…_ It seemed to Duck more than ever that her imaginary pas de deux would remain just that: a daydream. 

Fakir sighed, and willfully ignored the throbbing of his battered feet, said, “Honestly, I think the problem is that you’re so focused on trying to get the technical aspect of the dance right it makes you nervous and anxious. Just…try to relax.”

By now, the needle was scratching noisily at the end of the record. Re-cranking the Victrola, Fakir placed the stylus back at the beginning of the record. He held out his hand once again to Duck, who took it reluctantly.

Drawing the red-head close to his chest, Fakir could sense the tension in her body radiating through his hands. He whispered into Duck’s auburn hair, “Don’t worry about the steps. Listen to the music and follow my lead.”

Duck nodded mutely and took a deep breath.

Without Fakir to tell her what to do, she at first reverted to old habits and tried to look at his feet for guidance. But she realized that, rather than staring down at their feet, she could also feel the direction Fakir was leading her through a gentle pull of his hand or a slight push from his frame against her body. _I see…that’s what Fakir meant,_ Duck thought.

Partially closing her eyes to better focus on the music’s tempo and her partner’s subtle guidance, Duck stepped lightly in time with Fakir’s footsteps. Though their movements were small and light, they moved in sync with one another as they circled the humble little dining area.

The dramatic change in Duck’s behavior surprised Fakir, who had not expected her to be able to apply his advice so quickly. But the surprise soon translated into a smile. _Idiot, and she's claiming she can’t dance…_

With jazz music drifting through the small apartment, Fakir also closed his eyes and rested his chin lightly against the top of Duck’s head. Their gently swaying figures cast silhouettes that glided across the floor, mind and soul content in each other’s arms. As the last note of the song faded into the quiet crackle of the gramophone, Fakir opened his eyes once again.

Duck’s eyes were now closed, and the side of her face was resting against his chest. The warmth from her cheek made Fakir hold her a little closer even though their feet had already stilled. At last, Duck’s eyelashes fluttered open, as though awakening from a spell.

Not wanting the enchantment to break just yet, Fakir held onto Duck’s left hand and raised it to his lips. Unlike Annie’s manicured and silky-smooth hands, Duck’s hands were dry and cracked from work and the cold autumn winds. But to Fakir, this work-worn hand he held in his own was dearly precious. With the reverence reserved for a princess, he lightly kissed her knuckles and was rewarded with the sight of a pair of flustered blue eyes looking back at him.

“Um, th-thank you, Fakir,” Duck blushed and adverted her eyes. Embarrassed as she was, Duck made no attempt to move away, even after Fakir’s hands dropped to his sides.

Teasingly, he grinned, “I think you’ve got it backwards, silly. It should be the male dancer who thanks his partner for the dance.”

“I-I was thanking you for the lesson!” Duck retorted, but her lips soon melted back into a smile. “Maybe next time we can go to a dance hall together? It’ll be livelier, and we’ll have live music so you wouldn’t have to keep re-cranking the phonograph.”

Fakir shrugged unenthusiastically. “I think dancing here is better, honestly. It’s less crowded, it’s quieter, and you’re not smelling the collective odors of everyone crammed into a single room.”

Duck could not help but let out a hearty laugh. Covering her mouth with a hand, she agreed gleefully, “It does get smelly in there sometimes, especially during the summer!”

As Fakir returned to his room to change the record, Duck exhaled. “Whenever I go to a dance hall, I feel like everyone’s watching me. It’s nerve-wracking, having so many pairs of eyes on you. I can’t help but feel like everyone there can see how terrible of a dancer I am.”

“You say that, but you actually did quite well,” Fakir rejoined, walking back into the dining room accompanied by a new jaunty tune. “You’re just nervous when you dance. Once you let go of your nerves, you are a perfectly competent dancer.”

“Oh, stop! I can’t believe you of all people would try to flatter me!” Duck exclaimed, sitting back down in the chair she’d pulled out earlier.

But Fakir’s emerald gaze softened and he looked at her earnestly. “Duck, I’m serious. If you’d just practice more, and have more confidence in yourself, you could be a good dancer.”

Duck blushed again at this unexpected source of praise, from the _last_ person she’d ever expect to receive any from. Seeing her diffidence, Fakir added more quietly, “If you ever want to practice, just ask. I’m here.”

“But…” Duck twiddled her thumbs, “it’s not fair of me to ask for your time when you work late so often. In fact, I’ve already cut into your rest tonight…”

“I don’t mind if it means being with you. If anything, being with you helps me relax,” Fakir answered, and now it was his turn to blush at those sincere words. Reaching for her hand, he gave her fingers a light squeeze. “I’ve put on a new song. Do you want to do one more dance?”

This drew a warm smile to Duck’s face as she nodded and rose from her seat. Walking with Fakir back to the center of the room, Duck placed her hand back on his shoulder and wondered aloud, “Say, Fakir, who taught you how to dance?”

“Rachel did,” Fakir answered. “When she was younger, she was one of the most popular girls in town. During church events and holiday celebrations, all of the boys would want to dance with her, but when the attention got to be too much, she’d rope me into dancing with her instead, to get them off her back.”

“I can see that,” Duck giggled. Fakir’s older cousin was an exceptionally beautiful woman, and it was not hard to see why boys would be fawning over her.

But before Duck could give the subject any more thought, Fakir remembered the message entrusted to him by his cousin. “Speaking of Rachel, she wanted me to let you know that she will be coming by on the 27th. She wants to do an early birthday celebration for me and will be bringing a cake. She’s asked you to come, if you can.”

Thinking Duck would be excited by the prospect of more baked goods, Fakir was surprised when she looked at him with wide-eyed dismay, her feet becoming still. “Wait, your birthday is approaching? You never mentioned anything about it before!”

At her strong reaction, Fakir rolled his eyes and groaned. “Honestly, I hate making a fuss over it every year! I tried to talk Rachel out of it this year, but she wouldn’t budge.”

“But Rachel’s right: birthdays are important! I mean, yes, they can be a bit of a bother at times,” Duck admitted, recalling her own recent haphazard birthday arrangements, “but it’s worth it, because you get to have fun with those close to you!”

“You just repeated exactly what Rachel said to me over the phone.” Fakir sighed, seeing that Duck was taking Rachel’s side. “I guess there’s no getting out of it this year.”

“But Fakir—!” Duck began, though she fell silent once Fakir pulled her in close.

Duck let her words go and nestled her head onto his chest, a relaxed smile now on her lips. With the upbeat jazz music playing in the background, Fakir mirrored her smile.

 _Being close to you like this is a gift in and of itself,_ the detective thought, breathing in the scent of Duck’s hair, which smelt faintly of jasmine flower. _There’s nothing more I could ask for…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Petting is Jazz Age slang for cuddling, while necking is…well, pretty much what it sounds like (i.e. two people making out). Like Duck, I had no idea what spooning meant when I first came across the term, but apparently it denotes the rather innocuous act of someone laying down while holding their sweetheart’s back to their chest, such that the couple resembled a pair of spoons fitted together (though to be honest, it sounded a lot more salacious in my head than what it actually meant). 
> 
> *Shorthand writing systems are used by journalists and secretaries as a way to quickly and accurately transcribe spoken words into written texts. Several shorthand systems exist for the English language, but Gregg shorthand—first established in the late 19th century—has continued to be popular to this day. 
> 
> *Anemone, in the language of flowers, symbolizes death of a loved one, forsaken love, but also undying love.
> 
> *In Jazz Age taxi dancer jargon, “professional business” is a term that insinuates police or law enforcement work, while “monkey-chaser” is a man who’s romantically pursuing a taxi dancer. Also, Fakir having all of about $5 in his wallet may seem like pocket change in today’s terms. But back in 1925, $5.00 had the same purchasing power as $73.53 in 2019. 
> 
> *Torpedo in 1920’s slang means a hitman.
> 
> *The Fletcher Henderson Orchestra was a popular and highly influential African-American band led by James Fletcher Hamilton Henderson. His orchestra featured, at one time or another, a number of influential Harlem Renaissance artists—including Duke Ellington, Louise Armstrong, Buster Bailey, and Coleman Hawkins. 
> 
> As always, thanks to Tomoyo Ichijouji for proofreading!


	7. Chapter 7

“Happy birthday to you,

Happy birthday to you,

Happy birthday, dear Fakir,

Happy birthday to you!”

Duck and Rachel clapped their hands and cheered. Across the kitchen table, the birthday boy sat with his head leaning onto his hand, trying unsuccessfully to stay out of the center of attention.

“Can we please cut the cake now?” Fakir pleaded.

Rachel giggled. “Alright, but before we do, here’s my early birthday present for you.” The soprano took out a large neatly wrapped box, which Fakir—with a look of relief—accepted.

“Fakir said you have a performance coming up. Are you going to be really busy next month, Rachel?” Duck asked as Fakir undid the wrapping.

Rachel nodded, and with a touch of ruefulness in her voice she answered, “Very much so. The Met Opera is scheduled to have dress rehearsals for our production of _Ruslan and Lyudmila_ starting next week, and my schedule is booked completely solid for the next two months after that. Rather than doing a very belated birthday celebration, I felt it was better to celebrate just a little bit early.”

Hearing this, Duck nodded in agreement. Across from them, Fakir had finished undoing the wrapping and opened the paper box to reveal a dark gray wool coat. Watching Fakir pick up the folded garment from its box, Rachel said, “It’s been unseasonably cold for this time of year, and you’re often out late on cases, so I thought a light but warm coat would be useful for you to have.”

The corners of Fakir’s lips perked up slightly, and he said sincerely, “Thank you, Rachel.”

Seeing Fakir pleased with her gift, Rachel also curled her red lips into a smile. “You’re welcome, Fakir. Now,” the brunette turned to Duck and clasped her hands together, “I think it’s time for cake!”

While Rachel proceeded to distribute the set of dainty bone china dessert plates (courtesy of Duck, as Fakir’s idea of a full dish cabinet was two unmatched plates, a bowl, and a single cracked mug), Duck busied herself with the coffee pot and began refilling the matching peony-painted teacups she had brought.

As the red-haired girl raised the pot over to Rachel’s cup, the opera singer held out a hand. “Oh, no thank you, Duck. One cup is enough for me.”

“Oh…” Duck glanced down at the coffee before looking back sheepishly at Rachel. “I’m sorry, I don’t make coffee very often…did I get it wrong?”

Hearing this, Rachel shook her head before smiling apologetically, “Heavens, no! That wasn’t what I meant, Duck. The thing is…”

Here the brunette paused and closed her eyes for a moment as both Fakir and Duck watched her inquisitively. When Rachel’s violet eyes opened again, her smile grew and the bubble of joy she had been hiding finally rose to the surface. “…I’m pregnant!”

“Oh my gosh!” Duck exclaimed while Fakir blinked in surprise.

Hurriedly setting aside the coffee pot, Duck dashed around the table and gave Rachel a tight hug, which the older woman happily returned. “Congratulations, Rachel! Oh wow!” Duck clasped her hands to her mouth, before impulsively giving the singer another hug, for good measure.

Watching the excitement, Fakir smirked and said with a cocked brow at his cousin, “That explains why you were being so surreptitious over the phone the other day. How long have you known?”

Rachel laughed as a giddy Duck finally went back to her chair, the slices of chocolate cake on the table momentarily forgotten by all present. “A few weeks now. In fact, Hans and I had just come back from the doctor the day I called you.”

“Have you thought about names for the baby yet?” Duck chimed in eagerly.

“Hans and I have a few names in mind,” Rachel said, her fork hovering over her plate. “I really like the name Monica if the baby happens to be a girl. Hans, meanwhile, would like to name the child after his grandfather Carl if the baby turns out to be a boy.”

“Do you have your own boy’s name in mind?” Duck wondered aloud.

“I personally really like Robert. But honestly, there are so many names, it’s very hard to choose just one!” the singer admitted with a laugh.

“If you end up having twins, then you will need more than one name. So why not keep one as a backup?” Fakir said matter-of-factly.

“That’s a good point!” Duck echoed as she tucked into a bite of cake. After swallowing the sugary morsel, she piped up, “In fact, having _three_ sets of names would be even better!”

Fakir grimaced at Duck. “Triplets? Now that’s just being excessive, isn’t it? After all, what are the odds?”

“It’s not impossible, though!” Duck argued before taking another bite of cake. “Several years ago, Ma had a set of triplets in the beginner’s class, all boys. I remember Ma said they were quite the handful.”

Fakir rolled his eyes and reached for his coffee-filled bone china cup. “I’m sure there was never a dull moment in _that_ household. Their poor mother must have been exhausted!”

“I know…I can barely imagine myself with one, much less three,” Duck mused to herself before stabbing into the last piece of her cake.

“You seem to handle Zurab pretty well. I’m sure you’ll be fine when you have—” Fakir began casually, but then snapped his mouth shut on the last word. But it was too late, and as he caught Duck’s eyes from across the table, as if on cue, their faces began to blush in unison.

Duck noisily swallowed the cake in her mouth with an audible “gulp” and fixed her eyes down at the table, suddenly fascinated by the constellation of crumbs left on her plate. Fakir, meanwhile, seemed to have also found something exceptionally fascinating outside the kitchen window, and resolutely kept his eyes fixed on whatever it was he had found while sipping from his cup.

The sudden awkward silence confused Rachel, whose eyes flitted first to Duck, then to Fakir. When she noticed the pink tint in their cheeks, the singer had to push back down the surge of laughter that threatened to erupt forth.

Keeping her voice even and genial, Rachel asked lightly, “Who is Zurab?”

Duck’s eyes darted up, her face still warm. “Oh, Zurab is a little boy who lives with Miss Edel! He’s her nephew…or at least, I think that’s how they’re related. He’s a really sweet child, and…”

As Duck launched into her stories about Zurab, Rachel glanced over towards Fakir, who was secretly peering at Duck over the rim of his painted porcelain cup.

_Silly boy_ , the bemused soprano thought to herself with a knowing smile, savoring the chocolate cake on her plate and the equally sweet love-struck expression on her cousin’s face.

* * *

By the time Rachel shrugged on her coat and reached for her hat hanging by the door, stars had appeared in the darkening sky outside Fakir’s window. Fakir, having insisted on walking Rachel to the trolley station, had ducked into his room to retrieve his jacket, briefly leaving the brunette to bid farewell to Duck.

“Thank you again for lending us your dishware, Duck,” the opera singer said to the red-head, who was standing with a pile of cleaned plates and cups in her hands. “And thank you for joining us today. It was so wonderful to catch up with you!”

“You’re welcome! Thank you for the cake, and for washing these,” Duck looked down at the assorted china cradled in her arms, which clattered lightly as she shifted on her feet. “If you ever need anything, just let me know!”

“You as well, Duck. Call if you need anything, or if you just want to get together and chat over tea and cakes,” Rachel smiled, then touched her lips as she remembered something. “Come to think of it, I don’t think I have your number. Let’s exchange numbers before I go.”

“Oh…” Duck set the dishes back on the table as Rachel took out a pen and pulled out an old department store receipt from her purse. “I don’t have a telephone installed in my apartment,” the red-haired girl admitted. “Can I give you the number for the pointe shoe shop where I work instead?”

“Certainly! And here is my number,” Rachel said, tearing the scrap of paper in half and jotting her phone number down while Duck did so likewise on the other half.

By the time Fakir walked back into the kitchen area with jacket and hat in hand, Duck had just tucked the note into a pocket on her sweater. To Rachel, Fakir said, “Are you ready? I’ll walk you to the tram station.”

“Fakir, I’ve told you, I can find my way there,” Rachel began, but when she saw the concerned expression on Fakir’s face, she sighed softly and acquiesced. “Oh, very well, then. Thank you, Fakir.”

After bidding Duck farewell, the Romeiras cousins made their way out into the cool night air and headed for the station.

Once a group of boisterous students had passed them by, Rachel remarked, “You and Duck are getting along quite well with one another.”

Fakir’s brows twitched at the seemingly innocuous comment and Rachel thought her younger cousin was going to play dumb. But to her surprise, he said, “Duck and I…we’re seeing each other.”

A wide smile erupted on Rachel’s face. “Really? Good on you, Fakir! She’s a lovely girl! Ah…”

The singer exhaled contently and looked up at the sky. Above them, the bright gibbous moon hung in the cloudless starry night, its silver glow reflected in Rachel’s violet eyes.

“To be honest, I was worried you’d never find someone…either because your personality was too strong, or because love was simply something you wouldn’t make time for in your life. But I see I needn’t have worried. Things always work out somehow…” Turning back to Fakir, Rachel added with a twinkle in her eyes, “…and sometimes things work out for the better.”

Shifting uneasily, Fakir turned the topic back to Rachel as they came to a crosswalk and paused for the light. “What about you? The show is opening soon. Are you sure you will be all right?”

Rachel looked down and gently touched her stomach. “You know the saying, ‘the show must go on’. Some mornings have been a little rough, but it hasn’t been unbearable. In fact, my voice has felt stronger after I became pregnant, and my vocal coach commented that my arias have sounded richer lately. Perhaps it’s thanks to the baby,”* she said, grinning playfully.

“But you haven’t told the Met about your pregnancy yet, have you? What will you do after you have the child?”

Ahead of them, the red crosswalk light turned green and the pedestrians’ footsteps resumed their onward march. Facing Rachel, Fakir asked solemnly, “Singing for a large company like the Met Opera was your dream growing up. You’ve invested so much time and effort to get to where you are now…but, it could all end if the Met decides to drop you once they know you’re expecting.”

Walking side-by-side with her cousin, Rachel nodded somberly. “That has crossed my mind. I will have to tell Gatti* about my pregnancy before long, certainly before I start to show. But no matter if the company wants me to stay or go, once this season’s show is over, I will have to take a break from performing. The doctor warned me that pregnancy will affect my breathing and make singing long passages difficult.”

Rachel looked out ahead, her spirits high despite the deepening cold in the air. “But what I do know is that both Hans and I have decided it was time for us to start a family of our own.” Patting her belly, the soprano smiled. “Whatever may come in the future, I will not regret our decision to have this child.”

Looking now to Fakir, the mischievous gleam returned to Rachel’s eyes and she grinned. “What about you and Duck? Have you begun planning your proposal to her yet?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake—!” Fakir exclaimed in exasperation while his cousin concealed a chuckle behind a gloved hand. “We’ve been seeing each other for barely a month! It’s far too early to be thinking about marriage!”

“Perhaps,” Rachel said lightly as they stopped in front of the station, the approaching toll of a tram car ringing in the air. “But it’s never too early to start planning.” She pulled Fakir in for a tight hug, which Fakir silently returned.

Pulling away, the singer tenderly touched Fakir’s face, her fingertips brushing past his shorn locks. “I can tell she’s the one for you, Fakir. There’s been so much more joy in your life since you met her. Hold onto this happiness that you’ve found; nurture it, but also _enjoy_ it. I know you don’t like me harping on this, but do something nice for yourself on your birthday this year instead of burying yourself in work, you hear?”

As the tram pulled up to the station, Fakir clasped Rachel’s lingering hand and gave it a brief squeeze. “I know,” he answered quietly before letting go.

Once onboard the streetcar, Rachel gave Fakir one last wave before disappearing inside the tram. Fakir stood and watched for a few moments longer as the car continued on its way and faded into the busy street.

Lifting his gaze to the waning moon in the sky, Fakir wondered idly what it would be like to have a family of his own. _Might be something like that day at the zoo,_ he thought, recalling the excited chatter from Zurab and the patient smile on Duck’s face.

The memory of Duck and Zurab dredged up a hazy memory from many years ago, the details having eroded with time. He was a young boy, only a few years older than Zurab back then. Though he could no longer recall the exact setting, Fakir remembered the feeling of glee and anticipation he’d felt as his parents presented him with his birthday gift. Small hands hurriedly unwrapped the parcel, revealing a paperback detective novel as his father placed a paternal hand on his head.

_“Happy birthday, Fakir!”_

The ghostly murmur in Fakir’s ears was displaced by the blare of a speeding car, impatiently honking its horn at the pedestrians blocking its path.

Fakir turned his gaze away from the soft moonlight. Despite his resolve to stop living in the past, the fact remained that there were some things he held dear that were lost forever. With the crunch of fallen leaves under his feet, the detective began his lonely trek back towards home.

* * *

The day after Rachel’s visit, Duck exited her apartment to see Fakir already waiting for her. “You’re not wearing the new coat, Fakir?” the shop girl asked as she locked her door.

“It’s not quite cold enough for that just yet,” Fakir answered, accompanying Duck as they made their way downstairs. “Besides, the places police work takes me are rarely pleasant. It’s better to save it for the weekend, or for a day when I’m off duty.”

Making their way down the familiar street, Duck looked at Fakir, her mouth wrinkled into a thoughtful frown. “I know we talked about this before, but I still think we should do something to celebrate on your birthday, Fakir. I know you don’t want anything complicated, but…”

As Duck felt a hand on her arm, she went silent and glimpsed a forlorn shadow in Fakir’s eyes before he shrugged. “It’s…just an unnecessary bother. Don’t worry yourself over it.”

Fakir’s hand fell away from Duck’s arm, leaving a lingering vacuum of warmth in its place. Changing the topic deliberately, he said, “Though, speaking of a gift, I want to get something for Rachel and the baby. It’s a bit early, but maybe you can help me with some ideas?”

“Um, sure…” Duck muttered. She knew better than to push the subject of his birthday when Fakir clearly did not want to talk about it.

Yet, even after they had parted ways at Ebine’s bakery, thoughts of presents and Fakir’s birthday lingered in Duck’s mind.

_Even if Fakir doesn’t want a party or anything, I still should get a present for him_ , she thought, her hand subconsciously clasping the carnelian pendant below her collar. _But what should I get him?_

A blur of color from the corner of Duck’s eyes stilled her feet, and she found herself in front of the travel agency again. The sight of the rainbow over Niagara Falls brought a smile to her face, and she allowed herself a moment to enjoy the poster. Inside the travel agency, a figure caught sight of her from the window and a smartly dressed young man stepped out.

“Good morning, miss!” the friendly young man held out his hand to Duck, who—taken by surprise—hurriedly returned the gesture and shook his hand. “Anything I can help you with?” he asked.

“Ah…” Duck gave the man an awkward smile and glanced at the poster behind him. “I-I was just looking at the poster of Niagara Falls…”

“Oh yes! That has been a popular destination this year! We actually have a promotion right now—hold on just a second and let me get a brochure for you!”

Duck nodded mutely as the spry travel agent hopped back inside before reappearing moments later with a brochure for Niagara Falls and a flyer printed with train schedules.

“Here you are, miss.” Opening up the brochure, the agent explained, “We currently have a two-days, one-night special package to Niagara Falls. You’ll stay at the Converse Hotel, and breakfast is included with your stay. The brochure also lists the sights and attractions you’ll see there, and you can pick from any of the trains on this schedule sheet.”

“I see,” Duck quickly glanced through the brochure, which advertised not only the eponymous waterfall, but also local restaurants and various places of interest for tourists. The more Duck looked at the colorful advertisements with its promises of fun and beautiful vistas, the more tempting the prospect of visiting became.

_This would make a great present for Fakir! He could take a break from police work and do some sightseeing!_

Looking up, the red-haired girl asked, “How much is the package?”

“That’ll depend. Will the trip be for a party of one or more?” the travel agent inquired.

“Eh…” Duck hesitated. As much as she’d like to go, she reminded herself she was asking for Fakir’s sake. But if the package was cheap enough, she would love to see Niagara Falls for herself. “How much would it cost for one person? And how much would it cost for two?” she asked tentatively.

“For one, the discounted rate for train and lodging is $35. But for two people the package will be $40,”* the young man said proudly, and failed to notice the color drain out of Duck’s face at those prices. 

_There’s no way I can afford that!_ Duck mentally groaned.

With the travel agent watching her expectantly, Duck hurriedly tucked the brochure and train schedule away into her purse and began to turn away. “I-I see…um, thank for you this. I’ll think about it!”

“Of course! But just so you know, this offer ends in three weeks. If you any questions, come by any time we’re open!” the cheerful young man said with a wave, which Duck weakly returned before turning onto C Street.

Exhaling a deep sigh, Duck directed her mind to other options for Fakir’s birthday. _I remember Pique mentioned enjoying a good meal as an idea for my birthday_ , Duck thought as she approached the pointe shoe shop. _That might not be such a bad idea…but, what kind of food does Fakir like?_

Duck grimaced. Though they’d known each other for a while now, she’d only seen Fakir eat a handful of times. In all those instances, he ate whatever was quick to eat and readily available, and she never heard him make a fuss about his food.

_He has to have a favorite food, right? I mean, most people do—well, then again, Fakir isn’t exactly like most people._

As Duck pondered this question, Rachel’s friendly face appeared in her mind. “Hey, that’s right!” Duck said to herself. “I can ask Rachel!”

Patting her sweater pockets, Duck found the scrap of paper Rachel had given her the day before still tucked within her pocket. But with Rachel’s number in hand, Duck came to another question: how would she make the call?

_Mr. Kotin’s phone would be the easiest option. But with Lillie and Pique around, chances are they’ll overhear me. Then they’d surely ask me lots of questions about why I made the call, and to whom!_ Duck shuddered, not wanting to add more proverbial fuel to stoke the burning interest her friends seemed to have in her private life.

Touching her freckled nose thoughtfully, the red-head considered other options available to her. _Let’s see…I remember there was a payphone on 14th Street, between the hardware store and the bookstore. Maybe I can go there instead?_

Before Duck could come to a decision, the sight of a familiar figure by the Stein Jewelry Store interrupted her thoughts. Smiling benevolently, Edel watched as Duck picked up her pace and came up to greet her.

“Good morning, Miss Edel!”

“Good morning to you as well, Duck. How are you today?”

“I’m well. And you?” Duck smiled.

“I am well as well. But I was wondering, could you do me a great favor?”

At this unexpected request, Duck’s brow furrowed in worry. Without hesitation, she responded, “Of course! Is everything alright?”

Edel did not reply. Instead, she gave Duck a wan smile, which only made Duck more concerned. “I will visit Zurab’s mother, Josefine, at the Trudeau Sanitorium in a week’s time.* I will be away for about two weeks, plus travel time. Unfortunately, I cannot bring Zurab with me. He is young, and I do not wish to expose him to the maladies that patients there are recovering from. Could you look after Zurab during this time?” Edel asked.

She continued, “He can accompany you in the pointe shoe shop during the day. I have already spoken with Vaslov on this matter and he has given me permission to let Zurab sit in the store. I have books and puzzles to keep Zurab occupied while I am away, and have impressed upon him that he must remain quiet and not distract you from your tasks while he stays in the store. If you would be willing to take him home with you after hours, I would be deeply grateful to you.”

“Yes! Of course!” Duck answered immediately. Glancing inside the jewelry shop, Duck did not see Zurab. To Edel, she asked, “Is Zurab’s mother doing well? I hope she’s alright…”

Edel sighed and a look of worry entered the shopkeeper’s sapphire blue eyes as she said, “She has been recovering slowly but surely, but the illness has left her physically very weak. As you can imagine, she misses Zurab terribly, but in her current state it would be impossible for Josefine to care for Zurab. I plan to speak with her and her physician to see what can be done about her situation. After all, a sanitorium—no matter how pleasant—is not a place to spend the rest of one’s life.”

Duck nodded. Feeling a pang of pity and kinship for the little boy, knowing that he must be missing his mother very much as well, she said reassuringly, “I’ll take good care of Zurab while you’re away, Miss Edel. Leave it to me!”

“Thank you, Duck,” Edel closed her eyes momentarily and exhaled a breath of pure relief. “Let us talk later today or tomorrow to arrange things.”

With another firm nod of her head, Duck bid Edel farewell, and at last made her way to the pointe shoe shop. With the tinkle of the doorbell, Duck saw that Pique had already arrived.

“Duck! Mr. Kotin left another note for us,” Pique said and held out a sheet of stationary to Duck.

Accepting the note, Duck saw it was nearly identical to the last one he’d left, that he would be away for the day and was leaving the shop in their care. “How odd,” Duck commented, her eyebrows scrunched together.

When Lillie stepped into the shop shortly after, Duck passed the note to her blonde friend. “I wonder what kind of urgent business he’s away on,” Duck said. “In the past, he’d always tell us where he was going at least a day in advance, but he hasn’t mentioned anything recently.”

However, Lillie, in her typical fashion, had a far more ostentatious explanation in mind. Beneath what seemed like bright stage lights, Lillie dramatically exclaimed, “For Mr. Kotin to be away so much, I’m sure he must be planning something! Something secretive, something that he must not tell anyone! Maybe he’s planning a surprise proposal to Miss Belyky? Or better yet, maybe she’s actually a _Soviet spy_! A vamp* who’s entrapped him with her beauty and feminine charms, and has bent his mind to her cause!”

“Um…” Duck looked askance at her friend’s fanciful and preposterous idea, but Pique snorted and let out a hearty laugh.

“Honestly, Lillie, you should be working as a screenwriter in Hollywood instead of lounging here with us!”

At this, Lillie sighed, and the lights that seemed to beam down from above her dimmed as her melodramatic voice returned to its normal tone. “Oh, believe me, if anyone ever offered me the job, I would take it in a heartbeat! But I’m afraid my mother would make me join a convent before she’d let me move to California!”

“Why not try writing something and sending it to a few magazines here in New York? There are so many serials sold on the newsstands, I’m sure they’re constantly looking for new material! And you can always send your work in under a pseudonym. Your mother would be none the wiser!”

“Hmm,” Lillie considered this as they sat down in a row behind the counter while the clock quietly ticked away. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to give it a try? After all, we have so much free time right now, what with business being so slow and Mr. Kotin nowhere to be seen.”

As Lillie and Pique continued to discuss possible story ideas to pitch to magazines, Duck looked down at her small hands and her lips creased into a frown. _Both Lillie and Pique have found their interests, things they’re good at…but what about me? What can I do?_

Looking around her, Duck knew every nook and cranny of the pointe shoe shop, from which cabinet door squeaked the loudest to where Mr. Kotin kept his best fountain pen. But unlike her friends, Duck had no idea what she would do outside of this small cocoon she’d known nearly her entire life. The thought of going out into the world and seeing what she could make of herself was overwhelming. 

_Ack! I’m thinking too much again_ , Duck told herself resolutely, trying to ignore the prick of unease gnawing at the edge of her mind, a feeling to which she could not give a name, but also refused to go away.

Outside the shop window, two sparrows took off into the air from the tree by the door. Their flight caught Duck’s eyes and she watched as the birds flapped their wings toward a ledge out of view. As they took flight, a stray red autumn leaf was set adrift from its old perch, carried this way and that on the breeze, with no control over its path or destination.

“Hey, Duck.”

At the sound of her name, Duck snapped out of her trance and saw Pique and Lillie looking expectantly at her. “We’re going to take an early lunch. We brought food from home. Did you bring anything today?”

Unaware how much time had passed while lost in her uneasy reveries, Duck glanced at the clock and shook her head. “Oh! Um, no, I was actually planning to go buy something quick for lunch.”

So speaking, Duck scraped back her chair and retrieved her purse from the cabinet behind the counter. Remembering her earlier idea about the payphone, Duck added, “I also need to run some errands, so I might be back a little bit later.” 

“Oh, okay…” Pique answered, but by then Duck was already out the door.

Once outside, Duck made a beeline for 14th Street where she found the wooden phone booth next to the bookstore. Stepping into the narrow booth, Duck inserted a coin into the slot and dialed the string of numbers Rachel had given her.

With the receiver cradled to her ear, Duck waited for the ringing to stop. Luckily for her, after a few rings, the singer’s melodious voice could be heard on the other end of the line.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Rachel! It’s me! Duck!” the shop girl shouted into the receiver, trying to speak above the noise of the city around her.

“Oh! Hello, Duck. How are you?”

Duck’s blue eyes darted down to the floor of the payphone booth and she nervously edged closer to the transmitter and covered her hand over her mouth, “Um…good. Sorry for calling you out of the blue, but I was wondering—and this may sound like a strange question…do you know what Fakir’s favorite food is?”

A chuckle reached Duck’s ears and the fretfulness that had already been plaguing Duck morphed into panicked mortification.

“I-I’m sorry! That really was a strange question to ask! Sorry to bother you! Goodbye!” Duck exclaimed, and was about to hang up the receiver when Rachel’s voice stopped her.

“Wait, Duck! It’s not a strange question at all! Fakir’s already told me about the two of you…”

“Eh?” Duck gaped and reluctantly drew herself close to the transmitter again. “H-He did?”

“Yes, and I am so, so happy for the both of you!” Rachel’s voice responded with delight. The singer quickly continued, “About what you said earlier, are you planning to cook something for his birthday later this week?”

“Um, yes. I was hoping you could tell me what his favorite food is…” Duck answered. Scratching at her cheek, she admitted, “I-I’m not a great cook or anything, but I’d like to give it a try, if it’s not something too difficult to make.”

“Yes, of course! Fakir isn’t a picky eater, but if I had to pick one thing he really likes…” there was a pause and a thoughtful hum before Rachel said, “…I would say it would be açorda.”*

Duck blinked at the unfamiliar term, her mind drawing a blank. “Um…what’s that?” the shop girl asked hesitantly.

“It’s a type of bread soup. My mother made it for us when we were younger, and it’s the only dish I can remember that Fakir would regularly ask for seconds for. And don’t worry,” Rachel added, sensing Duck’s trepidation, “it’s a very easy dish to make! First, you grind garlic and cilantro into a paste. Then you poach an egg or two in simmering water, add salt to the water, and use the poaching liquid to make a broth with the paste. You put in some torn up pieces of old sourdough bread, put the poached egg on top, and voilà—that’s all there is to it!”

“Do you have a recipe, just so I’ll know how much of each ingredient to use?” Duck asked hopefully.

“No, I’m afraid we don’t have a written recipe,” Rachel responded, and Duck’s heart sank a little. “It’s always been made by eye and to taste. I think if it tastes good to you, it will be fine.”

“Oh, alright…” Duck sighed. _Even if there wasn’t a recipe to follow, the general directions do sound straightforward enough,_ the would-be chef consoled herself. _At least, I hope that will be the case…_

To the singer, Duck said, “Thank you, Rachel. I will try…”

“You’re welcome, and thank you for taking the time to do this. I’m sure Fakir will say this isn’t necessary, but I really appreciate your time and effort, and I’m sure he will too, even if he doesn’t say so.”

Duck smiled. After thanking Rachel one last time, they said their farewells and the red-head returned the receiver to its hook before stepping out with purpose back onto the street.

_Let’s see…I already have garlic and salt,_ Duck counted off on her fingers. _There’s still bread, but I should buy another loaf just for the soup. I’ll also have to get eggs…_ Duck cringed at the thought of her least favorite food. _But this is for Fakir, so if the recipe calls for poached eggs, then poached eggs there will be!_

Scarcely having taken two steps from the phone booth, Duck’s feet halted and she slapped her hands to her face. _But wait! I’ve never made poached eggs before!_ Sliding her hands down her face, Duck cupped her chin, thinking furiously. _Rachel said it was easy. Just cook the eggs in simmering water, right? Right! It’s just eggs. How bad can it be?_

Despite her positive mantra, Duck could vividly imagine herself making a giant mess in her kitchen, and having nothing to present to Fakir on his birthday except silent disappointment.

_Even if I get the poached egg right, what if I mess up the rest of it? I might think the soup is fine, but it might not be to Fakir’s taste! And since this is supposed to be his favorite dish, I’ll end up ruining his birthday! I need a backup plan of some sort! Maybe I can_ buy _a gift for him?_

With her mind racing, Duck looked around her, trying to find a shop that might offer her an alternative gift option in case her plan went south. As Duck looked up, the blue bookstore sign next to the phone booth caught her eyes, and she smiled broadly in delight.

_That’s right! Fakir loves detective novels!_ Duck thought, recalling the box of old detective novels she’d come across in Fakir’s bedroom many months ago.

With her hopes high, Duck strode into the bookstore. The shop owner looked up when she entered and greeted her warmly from his station behind the counter. “Hello, miss. Would you like help finding a book?”

Quickly glancing around the multitude of shelves in the store, each packed to the brim with tomes of varying sizes containing a kaleidoscope of subjects, Duck gulped and nodded feebly, “Yes, please.”

Putting down the stack of books he was organizing, the shopkeeper smiled, “Are you looking for a specific title or author?”

“No,” Duck twisted her hands, “but I would like to get a book as a present for someone. He likes detective stories…you know, like Sherlock Holmes and _The Moonstone_ …and he’s actually a police detective himself, and…” Duck trailed off, not knowing what else to say.

Seeing her lost and overwhelmed expression, the shop keeper smiled good-naturedly. “If that’s the case, I think I have just the book for you. Please follow me,” he said, walking around the counter and leading Duck to a shelf near the door.

Picking up a hardcopy book, the shopkeeper handed the volume to Duck, who saw the title was _The Secret of Chimneys_ by Agatha Christie.

“The books by this author have been very popular. This book in particular also features a lost treasure. If your friend enjoyed _The Moonstone_ , then I bargain he would also enjoy this story. Also, one of the main characters in this story is a police officer. All in all, I think this would be the perfect gift for him.”

Hearing this, Duck nodded happily. “That would be wonderful! I’ll take it!”

“Fantastic! Give me a moment to gift wrap this for you. Please feel free to browse in the meantime.”

“Thank you,” Duck said as the shopkeeper walked away back to the counter.

Just then, another thought occurred to Duck as she recalled Fakir’s old detective novels. Calling out to the store keeper, she said, “Sorry, before you wrap it, could I borrow a pen?”

* * *

The floorboard creaked below Fakir’s feet as he stepped in front of his apartment door. With no progress in the search for Worm Tongue after another long day, Fakir reached irritably into his pocket for his apartment key.

Hearing the shuffling noise coming from next door, Duck opened her door and peered out. “How were things at the precinct today?” she asked quietly.

Fakir shrugged as he put the key into the lock. “Could be better. Things are not coming together as quickly as I would like…but then, they very rarely come together at the pace I wish they would.”

Back to Duck, Fakir asked hopefully, “Do you want to practice dancing for a bit tonight?”

To Fakir’s secret disappointment, Duck shook her head. “No, you should get some rest. You look really tired.” Smiling, she then said, “I’m going to make something special for your birthday this weekend. I’ll bring it over for dinner on Sunday!”

“Make something ‘special’?” Fakir echoed dubiously. “You’re planning to cook something?”

“Yup!” Duck grinned. “It’ll be a surprise. Now get some rest, okay? Goodnight!” With that, Duck retreated back into her apartment, leaving a bewildered Fakir standing in the hallway.

_What on earth is she planning?_ Fakir wondered as he let himself into his apartment. He’d never known Duck to be much of a cook. That didn’t necessarily mean she was a _bad_ cook, but given how clumsy Duck seemed to be in everyday life, Fakir’s confidence in her culinary aptitude did not run very high.

Still, Fakir was intrigued as he walked into his bedroom. The feeling of anticipation gave Fakir’s hands pause as he took off his jacket.

_How strange_ , Fakir thought, his lips curling into a wry smile. _It’s been so long since I’ve actually looked forward to my birthday…_

* * *

When the evening of October 4th finally arrived a few days later, Fakir was working at his desk in his apartment when he heard Duck’s voice at his door. As soon as the door opened, the scents of freshly crushed cilantro and pungent garlic drew Fakir’s eyes down to the tray Duck held in her hands. On it were two large bowls, each filled with a green, steamy broth, as well as a small basket of sliced bread and a pair of spoons.

“Hi, Fakir! I wasn’t sure if you wanted to have the bread already in the soup or if you preferred to put them in yourself, so I brought the bread over, too,” Duck prattled excitedly as she set the tray down on his dining table and began laying out the bowls and other items. Once the items were set, Duck turned to see an incredulous Fakir staring back at her.

“You made açorda?”

“Well…I tried to,” Duck scratched her head sheepishly. “I know you didn’t want to do anything fancy, so I thought I’d try to make something you like to eat for your birthday. I-I’ve never made it before, but I asked Rachel and she said it was easy, so I gave it a try.”

Pulling out a chair, Duck motioned for him to sit before she took a seat at the table. Fakir gave the soup a stir with the spoon Duck had brought over, and fished out a hard-boiled egg from the bottom of his bowl.

The sight of the hard-boiled egg in Fakir's spoon drew an embarrassed laugh from Duck. “Ah haha…um, I meant to make a poached egg, but I think I overcooked it in the end…” She looked down and absently stirred her own bowl.

When an egg failed to bob up to the surface on hers, Fakir gave Duck a puzzled look. “You didn’t cook an egg for yourself?”

“Oh, I don’t like eggs, so I, uh, just made one,” Duck hurriedly explained.

What she didn’t say was that her first two attempts at making poached eggs ended disastrously when the eggs broke open in the pot. By the time she was down to her third and last egg, Duck overcompensated for her previous mistakes by boiling the egg all the way through.

_I should’ve asked Rachel about how to make a proper poached egg_ , Duck lamented, her teeth biting nervously on her spoon, as she watched Fakir bring a spoon full of broth to his lips.

To Duck’s relief, Fakir’s green eyes lit up when he took a sip of the light but flavorful soup. “It’s good,” he commented. The familiar taste on his tongue drew a smile to the detective’s face and he said quietly, “My mother used to make this soup, and I remember she would also have trouble making poached eggs, so my father would make that part of the dish instead.”

Duck’s hand paused and her eyes darted up from her bowl. Fakir rarely spoke about his parents, and when he did there would invariably be a tinge of pain in his voice. But today, for the first time since she’d met him, that tinge was absent, and only warm reminiscence filled his voice.

Seeing his smile, and despite her failed attempts at poaching eggs, Duck couldn’t help but feel a glowing rush of pride. “I’m glad you like it!” Duck grinned, and added excitedly, “The poached egg part is a little hard, but if I make the…‛ah-sorta’ a couple more times, I’m sure I’ll get it right eventually!”

Having just put the bread into his soup, Fakir couldn’t help but let out a snort of laughter at Duck’s mispronunciation.

“What’s wrong?” Duck cocked her head slightly to one side in confusion.

“That’s not how you say ‘açorda’, Duck. It’s is pronounced ‘uh-soar-duh’. There’s a long vowel in the middle.”

Duck tried to imitate Fakir and puckered her lips, making her look uncannily like her namesake animal. “You mean, like ah-swooore-dah?”

Fakir cringed while choking back another burst of laughter. “No, that’s not quite it,” he said, trying to remain composed.

“A-swirl-dog? All-sort-of?”

Not sure if he should laugh or cry at this point, Fakir waved his hand and went back to his soup, which Duck did a far better job of making than pronouncing. “It’s…oh, never mind.”

Duck pouted reproachfully, but her displeasure dissipated when Fakir smiled. “Thank you for making this.”

“You’re welcome,” Duck responded and the two settled into a comfortable silence as they enjoyed the simple meal together.

As Duck reached the bottom of her bowl, Fakir had just finished his portion, wiping his mouth on a napkin.

“You take your time. I’ll go ahead and wash these first,” he said, and began to stand with the empty bowl in hand.

“Oh, wait!” Duck put down her spoon. “I have something else to give you! Hold on!”

Fakir sat back down as she hurried up from her chair and ran back to her apartment. _Did she make something besides açorda?_ he wondered, but when Duck returned, instead of food, she presented him with a rectangular object wrapped in crisp yellow wrapping paper and tied off with a neat red ribbon.

Wondering what this could be, Fakir accepted the object while Duck, standing eagerly in front of him, watched.

Once the wrapping and ribbon finally came undone, Fakir’s brows shot up when he saw the cover of the detective novel. “Why did you…?” his voice trailed off. 

Seeing his stunned expression, Duck quickly explained, “I-I wasn’t sure if the soup would come out well, so I also got you this! R-Rachel told me you like detective stories, a-and I saw you have similar types of books in your room, so I—!”

As Duck realized she had just revealed she had been snooping around his bedroom, a fact that Duck had so far kept a secret from Fakir, her cheeks flushed cherry red. She stammered, “Ah! That is, I saw those at a glance the other day w-when we were d-dancing! Yeah, that’s what it was!”

As Duck continued with her sputtering explanation, Fakir’s eyes were instead glued to the book in his hands. Running his palm across the book jacket, he opened the front cover and saw two brief lines of text written across the cover page.

_Happy birthday, Fakir._

_Love, Duck._

The memory of his parents from days lost past resurfaced. His mother’s warm smile and his father’s gentle touch on his head. The now faded handwritten note on the cover pages of old detective novels kept in his room, bittersweet memories of people gone forever…

_To our son, Fakir. Happy birthday._

Across from him, Duck ended her prattling abruptly when she felt a hand on her back. Fakir, still seated in his chair, pulled her toward him and buried his face into the front of her sweater.

“Fakir! What are you—?!” An abashed Duck exclaimed, but her voice cut off when she felt Fakir take a silent shuddering breath and felt his body tremble against hers when he exhaled.

“Thank you, Duck,” Fakir whispered, his voice muffled by Duck’s woolen sweater.

_Fakir…_ Duck’s blue eyes softened. Forgetting her nervous jitters from moments earlier, Duck smiled and wrapped her arms around Fakir’s shoulders, cradling his head in her hands.

“Happy birthday, Fakir…” she whispered back, her voice soft as a lullaby.

After another shaky breath, Fakir slowly drew away from Duck. Gingerly placing the book on the table, the detective stood, and wiped quickly at his eyes. Clearing his throat, Fakir said, “Let me get the dishes,” and reached for the used dishware.

But Duck pushed his hands out of the way. “It’s your birthday today! You shouldn’t be doing the dishes!”

“You cooked already. I should at least do the cleaning!” Fakir responded stubbornly, and turned toward the dishes again.

Duck however, was not about to give up so easily. Stepping between Fakir and the table, arms stretched wide, she declared, “But they’re _my_ dishes!”

“And it’s _my_ birthday!” Fakir shot back pointedly, eyes narrowed.

Duck opened her mouth but realized she didn’t have a retort to that. Instead, she started laughing and soon Fakir was also chuckling and shaking his head as they both recognized the absurdity of their argument.

“Okay, fine. But only because it is your birthday,” Duck giggled as she conceded “defeat”.

While Fakir disappeared into the kitchen with the dishes, Duck’s eyes wandered idly around his apartment before settling on the pile of paperwork and photos strewn over his desk from across the room. Curiosity propelled her into the room, and her eyes skimmed the various objects laid out on the tabletop.

She’d seen Fakir at work on the Corvo case before when she had come into his bedroom in search of her lost apartment key. The paperwork and documents had all been very abstruse to her then, as it still was now.

The only thing that she could decipher the meaning of at a glance was a black and white photo of a stocky man with a disproportionately small head, and the name “Anthony ‘Worm Tongue’ Vermi” written across the bottom.

“Say, Fakir,” Duck began as the sound of running water ceased and the shop girl could hear the squeak of Fakir’s feet on the floorboard behind her, “Why is this man called ‘Worm Tongue’?”

Throwing a dish towel across the back of a chair, Fakir joined Duck next to the desk and he picked up the photo. “He’s called that because he has a very noticeable lisp,” Fakir answered solemnly.

“Did he…” Duck paused, then looked back at Fakir and in a low voice, said, “did this person kill someone?”

The Fakir’s lips tugged downward before he handed the photo to Duck. “We suspect he might be involved in a homicide case I’m working on. Another thing is that…” The detective paused, and Duck was puzzled when Fakir’s hands clasped her shoulders. “I’ve also been working on a case where a supposed former associate of the Corvo gang made threats toward the witness and detective who brought down Principe and Domenico Corvo. We have reason to believe the suspect in both cases are the same person.”

Watching Duck’s eyes go wide, Fakir nodded somberly, answering the unspoken question on Duck’s mind. “I wanted to let you know sooner, so that you could be on your guard, but with only rumors and hearsays, I didn’t want to alarm you unnecessarily. Then, about two weeks ago, I found someone who heard this man make those threats firsthand, and just two days ago, we finally received copies of his old mug shot. We’re out looking for Worm Tongue right now, even as I speak, and I am sure we will locate him eventually. But in the meantime, take a good look at this photo, Duck, and stay alert.”

Duck nodded. Examining the mug shot in her hand for a long moment, putting it to memory, the shop girl then carefully placed the photo back on the desk.

Turning to Fakir, who stood with one hand still on her shoulder, Duck said, “I’ll be careful. But I’m glad you told me instead of trying to follow me everywhere, like you used to do.”

“Trust me, I was tempted,” Fakir smirked. “But knowing you, it would’ve been like guarding a hornet’s nest.”

“Hey!” Duck huffed, puffing out her cheeks.

The sight of Duck puffed up like a blowfish nearly made Fakir laugh again. But after everything they’d gone through, Fakir knew the subject at hand was no laughing matter. Sobering, his hand tightened its grasp on Duck’s shoulder and he said gravely, “Please do take this threat seriously, though, Duck. The Corvos employed a vast network of associates, and it’s impossible to say what kind of repercussions would follow after their downfall. If something were to happen to you…” He trailed off.

_…I would never forgive myself._

Fakir’s fearful thoughts were interrupted when he felt the warm touch of Duck’s hand on the side of his face. “You need to be careful, too, Fakir—even more so than me. After all, you face so many more dangers on a daily basis than I do.” Standing on her tiptoes, she placed a light kiss on the corner of his lips and stroked his cheek reassuringly. “I’ll keep my eyes peeled, so don’t worry.”

Fakir covered his hand over Duck’s, absorbed in her sky-blue eyes. Something about the way she smiled at him, her mix of uncommon courage and endless kindness, the way she always thought of others before herself…Fakir would do anything to protect this girl, whose heart was so much bigger than her slender and diminutive stature.

In moments like these, just as on the day he quietly declared his love to her, his words always seemed to fail him. It both frustrated and amazed him how the brightness in her eyes and a simple smile, when directed at him, had the ability to turn him mute.

Without words to help him, Fakir did the only things he knew to convey his emotions to her. Reaching for the small of her back, Fakir pulled Duck close. The action drew a blush to Duck’s cheeks and her small lips parted in surprise but she remained nestled in his embrace, palm resting against the center of his chest.

Tilting his head, Fakir’s green eyes briefly met Duck’s before his lips found hers and they closed their eyes against the amber glow of the desk lamp. Unlike their previous kisses, which were brief—almost chaste—tonight they lingered in each other’s touch, lips only parting briefly for a quick breath of air.

Fakir pulled Duck flush against him with one hand, while the hand that had been on her shoulder caressed the curve of her neck before coming to rest on the back of her head.

Feeling Fakir’s body firmly pressed against hers, a rush of heat traveled through Duck’s body, and she could not stifle a small sharp gasp as her knees seemed to turn soft. To hold herself steady, the red-head slipped her arms across Fakir’s back, the fabric of his shirt bunching in her closed fists as she leaned into him.

The notion of time seemed forgotten as they held each other, yet the growing heat between them at last forced them to part. By then, both of their faces were flushed and burning red as the heady first rush of passion left them breathless. With the fog in their brains beginning to clear, Fakir and Duck were at a loss for a moment before their hands reluctantly let go of one another, their eyes averted sheepishly towards the floor.

“Um…let me help you carry the dishes back,” Fakir offered weakly.

When he began to turn, a light tug on his sleeve stilled his footsteps. Duck, whose face was the color of a ripe pomegranate and still averted, had one hand on a corner of Fakir’s shirt cuff. She muttered faintly, “D-Do you think I can stay a little bit longer? W-We hadn’t had a chance to practice dancing this week…that is, i-if you don’t mind, of course!”

Mustering her courage, Duck glanced at Fakir, whose face was just as red as hers. When he didn’t respond immediately, she let go of his sleeve, but her hand was quickly caught by Fakir, who laced his fingers through hers.

“Always,” he responded simply and Duck found herself mirroring the smile on Fakir’s face.

* * *

The familiar chime of the doorbell greeted Duck as she stepped inside the Kotin Pointe Shoe Shop. “Good morning, Pique and Lillie,” Duck called out, expecting to see her friends already here. To Duck’s surprise, Mr. Kotin was the one who returned her greeting instead.

“Good morning, Miss Duck,” emerging from his office, the usually jovial shop owner spoke in an uncharacteristically subdued voice.

Duck gasped. “Mr. Kotin, you’re here this morning?”

Before Mr. Kotin could answer, another “jing-a-ling” at the door saw Pique, followed by Lillie, enter the store. They too were taken by surprise by the appearance of their ever absent employer, with Pique blurting out, “Mr. Kotin! We thought we’d never see you again!”

Mr. Kotin sighed and nodded. “Yes, I have been away for some time these last few weeks. But I am back here today for something very important.”

As Duck walked over to flip the “Closed” sign over, Mr. Kotin stopped her. “Not just yet, Miss Duck. Could you come here for a moment? You too, Miss Pique and Miss Lillie.”

Perplexed, the girls gathered in front of Mr. Kotin, who took a deep breath. Clasping his hands in front of him, he said gravely, “You see, ladies, there is something I must tell you…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *While it may seem far-fetched, there is anecdotal evidence (and at least one case study, titled: “The Impact of Pregnancy on the Singing Voice: A Case Study” published in the 2012 January/February edition of the Journal of Singing) that pregnancy changes the timbre and warmth in a singer’s voice during the second trimester, likely due to increased levels of the hormone progesterone. 
> 
> *The “Gatti” Rachel refers to is Giulio Gatti-Casazza, the general manager of the Metropolitan Opera from 1908 to 1935. While Gatti was said to be well-liked by those who worked with him, it was not uncommon for women to lose their jobs in the era this story is set in when they became pregnant or got married. It wasn’t until 1978, when the Pregnancy Discrimination Act was passed, that it became illegal for an employer to fire an employee for being (or planning to be) pregnant.
> 
> *Regarding Zurab’s mother, Josefine is the German variant of the name Josephine. The Italian variant of Josephine is Giuseppina, which is also the name of the Italian ballerina, Giuseppina Bozzacchi, who first performed the role of Coppélia in the ballet of the same name. Tragically, Giuseppina died on her 17th birthday due to illness after the onset of the War of 1870 between France and Prussia, 6 months after the ballet’s premiere. As an aside, the Trudeau Sanitorium that Edel mentioned is located in Saranac Lake, New York. The sanitorium was founded by the physician Dr. Edward Livingston Trudeau in 1885. He also founded what is now the Trudeau Institute, the first laboratory in the United States dedicated to the study of tuberculosis. 
> 
> *$35 in 1925 is worth about $511 dollars in 2020. The average salary in the 1920’s was roughly around $1,200, and at that time most wage earners were men. Women typically earned less than half of men’s wages. Thus, I’m estimating someone in Duck’s situation, working retail in a small store, would have an annual income of only a few hundred dollars, probably less than $500. For her to spend roughly 7% of her annual income on a vacation would indeed not be a feasible option.
> 
> *In the 1920s, femme fatales were called “vamps”, which is short for “vampires”. The term was popularized by the 1913 silent film “The Vampire”, staring Alice Hollister as the vampire Sybil who ruins the life of the main male character in the film. 
> 
> *Açorda is a rustic bread soup originating from the coastal Alentejo region of Portugal. The fundamental ingredients are stale bread soaked in poaching broth mixed with a paste of olive oil, garlic, salt, and cilantro, and topped with the poached egg. Variations can include seafood, cured sausage, bacon, rabbit, and various herbs. 
> 
> Thanks again to Tomoyo Ichijouji for proof reading!


	8. Chapter 8

Duck, Pique, and Lillie watched Mr. Kotin expectantly as the mustachioed man took a deep breath and said, “I wished I had the opportunity to tell you ladies sooner, but… I am now engaged to Miss Anna!”

At this, the girl threw their hands in the air, whooping and cheering. “I knew it!” Lillie squealed. “Oh, I knew you were planning a proposal! That’s why you’d been gone so much lately!”

“Congratulations, Mr. Kotin!” Duck beamed while Pique interjected excitedly, “So, how did you propose to her?”

“I had invited her to dinner at the St. Regis, where we had first declared our feelings for one another,” Mr. Kotin answered, unbothered by Pique’s prying inquisitiveness. As he continued, a sheepish smile appeared underneath his neat mustache. “To my surprise, not only did she accept, but she confided that she had come to the St. Regis with a proposition of her own.”

Confused, Duck looked at her friends, their enthusiasm dying down and now having expressions as perplexed as hers, before turning back to Mr. Kotin. “What kind of proposition?”

“A business proposition,” Mr. Kotin clarified. “As you may know, my dear Anna had started a dance troupe not too long ago. The troupe is small, but growing, and I wish for nothing more than to see her succeed, not only because she is the light of my heart and a fellow russkaya*, but also that I could see and appreciate the passion and effort she’s put into her company. I was more than happy to offer my assistance to her, and introduced her to people I know in the ballet and theater world who could help her business grow.

"But my dearest Anna—bless her sweet, just, and kind soul!—felt it was unfair that I receive no reward or compensation for my efforts. She proposed to give me partial ownership of the company, something which she was planning on putting forth to me the same night as my proposal to her.”

“Did you accept her offer?” Pique asked in a small voice, a sense of unease growing in her stomach as she and her friends wondered where this conversation was going and why Mr. Kotin was telling them all this. “Wouldn’t it be a lot of work to run two businesses at the same time?”

Mr. Kotin nodded gravely. “That very thought had passed through my mind as well. I did not answer Anna immediately, but after taking a day to consider it… I realized the idea of running a dance company—to offer not just my skills in shoemaking, but my years of experience and connections to help make the troupe a success—was one that was very exciting for me. As you all know, I have been running this shop for many years, and Anna has brought a breath of fresh air into the prosaic routine that I did not realize I had fallen into. The invigoration that comes with running a burgeoning business was an experience I had forgotten, and so I accepted her offer.”

Here Mr. Kotin paused, and the girls stood waiting for their employer’s next words. “Operating two different businesses, as Miss Pique pointed out, is a difficult task,” Mr. Kotin continued. “The number of clients we see has decreased noticeably over the last year, as I am sure you are all well aware. Financially, the pointe shoe shop is solvent, but supporting a second enterprise with the shop’s current income is out of the question. I have gone over the numbers, and after considering all of the options available, I’ve come to the decision that two things must happen.”

Holding up an index finger, Mr. Kotin explained, “The first is to move the shop. Two new pointe shoe shops have opened in Manhattan in the last year and they are our main competitors. Although they are new and have yet to build a strong reputation, their close proximity to many of our clients has gradually drawn business away from us. But to operate in Manhattan, we would have to dramatically scale down the shop’s floor space in order for the business to be sustainable after the increase in rent. As for the other necessity…”

Here, Mr. Kotin’s voice faltered, and he folded his fingers and lowered his hands. With everyone’s eyes on him, the usually theatrical man said quietly, “…In order to keep the business solvent, I would only be able to retain one employee at the new location.”

Duck’s stomach dropped to the floor. Her eyes darted to Lillie and Pique, and saw their grave expressions matched her as they all tried to process this sudden and unwelcomed news.

In the end, it was once again Pique who broached the uncomfortable silence. “So… who are you going to let go?”

Mr. Kotin shook his head hard and it was clear this was as difficult a subject for him as it was for the girls. “I have known all of you for many years… it is a decision I cannot bring myself to make, Miss Pique!”

Heaving a heavy sigh, his eyes passed from Pique to Duck, then to Lillie. “I often feel the three of you are like sisters to one another. And like a family, I think this is a decision you best make for and amongst yourselves. The current lease for the shop will not expire until the end of the year, and Miss Anna and I are still considering offers for a number of locations, so there is still time. I…!” Shaking his head despondently, Mr. Kotin turned away sharply and retreated into his office.

After his door closed behind him, the speechless shop girls looked helplessly at one another.

A few moments passed, and then Pique sighed. “Well, that was a shocker… but I can’t say I’m entirely surprised it’s come to this, either.”

Lillie shook her head, causing the curls in her hair to sway with her movement. “Me either! What are we going to do? Mr. Kotin said it’s up to us, but to punt such an important decision to us isn’t really fair, is it?”

“No. But you know…” Pique smiled wryly as she looked into the distance, “maybe this is a sign for me to give this secretary training thing a try.”

Duck’s head snapped up. “Are you serious, Pique?” the red-head whispered.

But Pique, her expression calm and thoughtful, nodded. “I’m going to miss having my own spending money, but if I can get through Mrs. Ryan’s training quickly, it shouldn’t be too hard to find another job afterward.”

Turning back to Lillie and Duck, Pique joked, “It was a good thing I have been practicing Gregg’s shorthand; hopefully that’ll help when I start lessons!”

Not nearly as upbeat as her violet-haired companion, Lillie pursed her lips and mulled over her options. “You know how my folks are… they would love nothing more than for me to stay home, especially my mother. But if I did that, I just know she would begin to talk of marriage and start parading young men through the parlor like a 'marry'-go-around!” Raising her hand to her forehead dramatically, Lillie wailed, “If that happens, then I would rather take my vow to God and join a convent!”

Pique let out a snort of laughter, puncturing the somber mood that had engulfed the room. “You really should give the short story writing a try, Lillie! Maybe that could be the subject of your first serial: ‘The Posh Postulant’!”

Watching her friends’ casual banter, Duck found it hard to believe that moments ago, their world had been turned upside down. But even as she watched her friends mutely, a vortex of anxiety swirled within Duck’s mind. One of her worst fears seemed to be coming true, and a part of Duck could not comprehend how her friends could recover so quickly from the shocking news.

 _It’s because they have other things they can do. Pique can go to school, Lillie can write… but there isn’t anything else that I can do!_ Duck bit her lip.

With her hands tightly gripping the front of her dress, she almost didn’t hear Pique, who turned away and said, “I guess that settles it, then. I’ll talk to my folks and if they agree, I’ll have a chat with Mr. Kotin tomorrow.”

As Pique strolled away, Duck wanted to reach out and stop her, but her muscles froze before she could lift her hand.

 _What am I doing? I can’t make Pique’s decisions for her_ , Duck admonished herself as overwhelming guilt and helplessness washed over her. Swallowing her shame, she forced herself to focus on tidying up the shop even as the sticky tendrils of anxiety tightened their grip around her consciousness. 

The rest of the day seemed to pass Duck by in a dull haze. By the time the shop closed, Duck stood at the door, unsure where to go. Desperate to talk to someone about her troubles, she began to turn her heels towards the Stein Jewelry Store, but stopped herself when she recalled Edel would be departing to visit her relative soon.

_Miss Edel is leaving in two days and she has to care for Zurab. She already has so many things on her plate; I shouldn’t burden her with my own problems…_

Taking a deep breath, Duck instead made a beeline for Mrs. Ebine’s bakery.

 _Maybe if Fakir hasn’t had dinner yet, I can make a-sorta again, and we can dance a little afterward,_ Duck thought, wishing for the welcoming distraction of dance and Fakir’s presence to lull away her worries.

Though she knew neither Edel or Fakir could in any practical sense help her, the desire to find someone to lend a willing ear propelled Duck forward until she stood in front of Ebine’s shop. Duck rocked nervously on her heels, waiting for the familiar dark-haired detective to materialize.

But as the sun gradually sank behind the rows of buildings in the distant horizon, there was no sign of Fakir. With the light fading, Duck fished out her pocket watch and saw that it was already 6:36, well past the time when Fakir would normally show up if he wasn’t preoccupied by work.

Resigned, Duck put away the watch and pulled her coat tightly around her frame against the advancing evening chill. Accompanied only by her own shadow, she made her way home.

* * *

The silence of Duck’s apartment lingered long into the evening, and it wasn’t until Duck was preparing for bed that the sharp creak of floorboards outside her door signaled Fakir’s return. By then, Duck, dressed in her nightgown, was brushing her unbraided hair on her bed. The sound sent her hurrying to the door, but when the floorboards ceased to groan, Duck’s feet stilled before she could reach for the doorknob.

Duck frowned, running her hands absently through her loose coppery locks. _I shouldn’t bother Fakir now. He must be tired after a long day…_

On the other side of the door, Fakir was fishing about his coat pocket for his apartment key, his brow furrowed. It had been another long day filled with meetings and what seemed like an endless stream of paperwork. But even more frustrating than the cumbersome bureaucracy was the lack of progress in locating Worm Tongue.

 _If he’s still in New York, Worm Tongue must know we’re looking for him by now_ , Fakir groused to himself. _We’ve checked all of his known hangouts, talked to dozens of people, but no one knows where he is._ _If he really was involved in Marco Corioli’s murder, it’s most likely he would’ve skipped town already…_

The idea that Worm Tongue had left the city stirred up conflicting feelings in the detective’s heart. He had promised Eddie Corioli that he would find the person who killed the boy’s father. However, if Worm Tongue had decided to leave for good, then Duck and himself would be safe…

Closing his fingers around his house key, Fakir directed his eyes from his coat pocket to Duck’s door.

 _I wonder if she wants to dance tonight…_ Fakir thought absently, his mind conjuring a memory of the red-head’s smile, but the detective quickly dismissed that idea as he entered the apartment. _It’s already so late; she has work tomorrow and is probably in bed already._

Stepping into his bedroom, Fakir traced a finger along the top of the Victrola as he recalled the soft touch of Duck’s hand against his palm while they swayed gently in time to the music.

His fingertips flowed from the Victrola’s polished wooden panels to his desk to the book Duck had given him for his birthday. Picking up the tome and cradling it to his chest, just as he had held Duck to him the day he received this gift, Fakir opened the novel to the page he had bookmarked with a slip of scrap paper.

_There is always tomorrow… and in the meantime, memories will do._

Next door, Duck pulled the bedcover over herself and settled into bed. Reaching behind her neck to undo the necklace clasp, her hands paused when the light from her lamp caught the red carnelian, making its surface glow in the amber light.

Her hands moved away from the clasp, and she cupped the pendant in her palms. The weight of the pendant reminded Duck of the reassuring pressure from Fakir’s hand on her back as they danced, and for the first time that day, a wan smile found its way to her lips.

Running her thumb over the smooth stone, she exhaled softly. With one hand cradling the pendant to her chest, she reached across her nightstand and turned off the light.

* * *

The following morning, after a lengthy discussion behind closed doors, Pique and Mr. Kotin reemerged from his office. With genuine and profound sadness, Mr. Kotin announced what the girls already knew: Pique intended to depart and begin lessons at Mrs. Ryan’s in-home secretarial school in a week’s time.

Though Pique’s time at the pointe shoe shop was coming to an end, the young woman was upbeat, even excited, as she talked about the new books she had bought and grumbled about the bulky used typewriter her father bought her to practice typing on. Duck nodded and listened attentively, but she found it difficult to smile despite wanting to be happy for her friend.

By the time Duck found herself standing in front of the Stein Jewelry Shop to pick up Zurab that evening, she had to consciously push a smile to her lips, lest she worry Edel. Even so, the ever perceptive Edel immediately noticed something was amiss as soon as she opened the door. “Is everything alright, Duck?”

Duck's lips quivered for a second, and the pent-up worries she had been harboring over the past two days trickled out. “Mr. Kotin… has he told you about the shop?”

Edel’s serene expression did not waver, and to Duck’s disappointment, the tall woman gave a small nod. “He has spoken to me about slow business at the pointe shoe shop before, and when I spoke with him last, I was under the impression he might consider moving. Has he come to a final decision on that, then?”

Duck nodded, and that simple, enabling motion seemed to open the dam as all of Duck’s suppressed thoughts began to spill out. “He’s thinking about moving to Manhattan, but the new shop would only be able to support one of us. Mr. Kotin has asked us to decide amongst ourselves who would like to stay and who wants to go. Pique has decided to leave and go to secretarial school. So, now…”

“Have you and Lillie talked about whom will stay?” Edel asked quietly, finishing Duck’s thought when the girl’s voice trailed off.

“No… and I… I don’t want Lillie to go, but I don’t know what else I can do!” Duck confided. Not knowing what else to say, the now familiar feeling of guilt rushed up and she quickly apologized, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be bothering you when you’re going to set out on a trip tomorrow! I just—”

“It’s all right, Duck,” Edel placed a reassuring hand on Duck’s shoulders and the pale woman wiped away the small beads of tear at the corner of Duck’s baby-blue eyes. “I am sorry to hear that things have come to this.” The tall shopkeeper’s thin lips drew into a sympathetic frown. “You have worked with Mr. Kotin for quite a number of years now, and I can imagine the news is hard to take. I cannot tell you what the future holds, but know that if there is anything you need, I will do my best to help you.”

“Thank you, Miss Edel,” Duck leaned in and gave the woman a hug. As she pulled away and Edel loosened her arms around Duck, the red-head sniffled and managed a smile. Feeling a little lighter, Duck said more brightly, “And don’t you worry about Zurab—I’ll be sure to take good care of him while you’re gone!”

Now it was Edel’s turn to smile. Leading Duck inside the shop, she said, “I have Zurab’s things packed for you. Wait here a moment while I go fetch him.”

Moments later, Edel led Zurab into the room and handed Duck a small suitcase. “Thank you again for agreeing to watch over Zurab for the next two weeks. It puts my mind at ease knowing he is with you.”

“You’re welcome, Miss Edel,” Duck smiled again. Kneeling down, Duck said to Zurab, “Hello again, Zurab!”

Instead of the garrulous greeting she had been expecting, the child merely glanced at her before turning his eyes to the ground. This muted response surprised Duck, and Edel explained, “Zurab has been a bit subdued these last few days. I think he is upset that I am leaving and not taking him with me.”

“I see,” Duck nodded back. Smoothing the child’s soft, downy hair, she tried to reassure him. “Don’t worry, Zurab. I’ll be sure to take good care of you.”

She extended her hand to the child. After another tentative glance, first to Edel, then back to Duck, Zurab mumbled a soft, “Okay, zura…” and took Duck’s proffered hand.

After a few more instructions from Edel on Zurab’s habits and schedule, the red-head waved the jewelry shop owner goodbye. Holding Zurab’s hand, Duck and Zurab made their way to Mrs. Ebine’s bakery and Duck’s eyes brightened when she saw Fakir was already there waiting for them.

Seeing Duck with her hands full, Fakir stepped forward. “Here, let me,” he said, and took the suitcase from Duck.

“Thank you, Fakir,” Duck said gratefully.

Fakir was surprised by the hefty weight of the small luggage. “This must weigh at least ten pounds!” Fakir said, lifting the small suitcase in his hand. “How long is he staying with you again?”

“Two weeks,” Duck looked down at Zurab, who was now looking around at the street and people around him as they began to make their way towards home. “Miss Edel packed Zurab’s clothes, some of his favorite snacks, his toys, and a few books in there.”

Fakir scowled. Having grown up without any younger family members, it seemed to Fakir taking care of a three-year-old—soon to be four—was far from an easy task. Duck, too, was an only child, and again the detective worried how the shop girl was going to manage caring for a young child all on her own.

Not wanting Zurab to overhear, Fakir quietly asked Duck, “Are you sure you’ll be alright?”

“Huh?” Duck blinked at Fakir before she realized the matter to which he was referring. “Oh, I’ll be fine! Zurab was very well-behaved when we were at the zoo, remember?”

Fakir scoffed and rolled his eyes. “No, I haven’t forgotten. I also haven’t forgotten about the wild goose chase we went on that day, either.”

“That wasn’t Zurab’s fault!” Duck argued. “He went where he said he was going to go. _We_ were the ones who had it all backwards!”

“You have a point there…” Fakir admitted grudgingly, recalling their collective embarrassment after having assumed Zurab was a girl up until then.

As their apartment building came into view across the street, the detective asked, “But you’re certain your boss is going to be okay with having a child in the shop? What if Zurab runs off again?”

At the mention of the pointe shoe shop, Duck’s lips drew thin. She opened her mouth to speak, but before the first words could leave her tongue, she changed her mind.

 _Fakir has so many more pressing things to think about_ , Duck reminded herself, and instead answered, “Miss Edel said she’s already talked to Mr. Kotin about it. Also, Lillie and… Pique… will help watch Zurab while he’s at the shop…” Duck’s voice faded.

The three climbed the stairs to their floor in silence. Fakir set Zurab’s suitcase in front of Duck’s door while the shop girl took out her keys. Watching Duck, Fakir felt a familiar flush creep up from under his collar as he awkwardly cleared his throat. “Say, um, do you want to listen to the Victrola tonight? You can bring Zurab over, too,” he added quickly.

The burning under his collar was put out when Duck gave a brief shake of her head. “No, I can’t. Zurab need to go to bed at 8, so I’ll have to go to bed early for the next two weeks.”

“Oh…” Fakir said quietly, hiding his disappointment with a nonchalant shrug. “Well, let me know if you need anything.”

“I will, thank you,” Duck smiled at him, and Fakir couldn’t help but smile back in turn. To the toddler, Duck made a little wave, “Alright, say ‘good night’ to Fakir, Zurab!”

“Goo night…” an already sleepy Zurab mumbled, copying Duck and waved his tiny hand at Fakir.

Fakir tipped his hat toward them and watched as Duck and Zurab entered her apartment. He only looked away after the door closed behind them.

_Two weeks, huh…_

The smile on Fakir’s lips wilted. The yearning to feel the touch of Duck’s hand against his skin seemed to grow by the day, and the brief contact they shared today when he took the suitcase from her only made the desire more acute. Knowing they would not have another opportunity to dance until a fortnight from now, Fakir couldn’t help but imagine if this was what being sentenced to prison felt like when all one could do was wait and count the days as they passed.

 _Oh, for God’s sake!_ Fakir rubbed his face with his palms, exasperated by his forlorn and lovesick musing. _Thanks to work, you barely saw her all summer; compared to that, two weeks is nothing! And it’s not as though she’s going to vanish in that time!_ He continued to chastise himself as he let himself into the apartment.

Draping his hat and jacket over a chair, Fakir tousled his hair and stepped into his bedroom when his eyes once again alighted on the copy of _The Secret of Chimneys_. This time, instead of flipping to the page earmarked by the bookmark, Fakir gingerly thumbed through the first few leaflets of printed paper to the cover page.

_Happy birthday, Fakir._

_Love, Duck._

Running his finger over the last two words, a faint smile returned to Fakir’s face.

 _Two weeks will pass soon enough…_ he told himself before settling into a chair with the book.

* * *

Pique’s last day at the pointe shoe was, much to Duck’s relief, a day like any other. There was no dramatic hugging and crying, or long drawn-out reminiscing about the past. Pique, followed by Lillie, greeted her with a smile in the morning, and soon after the three girls settled down to their usual perusal of the latest magazines behind the shop counter, just as they had done countless times before.

As lunch hour approached and the girls found themselves preoccupied with a stove-top cake recipe in the Saturday Evening Post, Mr. Kotin walked out from his office.

Looking up from the tempting image of chocolate cake, three sets of eyes arched in surprise when Mr. Kotin held out an enclosed envelope to Pique.

“For all your years of hard work, Miss Pique,” Mr. Kotin explained as Pique opened the envelope and saw it contained an entire month’s worth of pay.

“Mr. Kotin, I—” Pique stammered uncharacteristically. Looking from the envelope back to the shop’s proprietor, she said, “—there’s two weeks of extra pay here. Are you sure…?”

“I am sure,” Mr. Kotin replied softly. With a smile, he said to the rest of the girls, “Today being Miss Pique’s last day, I thought perhaps you ladies would like to spend some time together. I would like to take you all out for lunch, but my banker called this morning and I must go meet him now. To compensate, here is a little extra so all of you can treat yourselves to something nice.”

Mr. Kotin produced three dollar-bills and handed one to each of the girls. To Pique, who at this point was barely holding back tears, he said, “If you have a chance, do come by the new shop when it opens. Places and people might change, but you will always be welcome at Kotin Pointe Shoe Shop, Miss Pura Pique-Martinez!”*

“Thank you, Mr. Kotin…” Pique sniffed, “I’ll definitely come visit once the new shop is open!” The short-haired young woman reached over the counter and, paying no mind to decorum, gave Mr. Kotin a hug, which the mustachioed man returned with a fatherly embrace.

Afterwards, once Mr. Kotin had left for his appointment and everyone had a moment to collect themselves, Pique rubbed her nose, sniffled, and grinned at her friends. “Well, you heard him! Where shall we go?”

“With three dollars, we can go anywhere we want!” Lillie squealed excitedly. “We can have Oysters Rockefeller, or Chicken a la King!”*

Not wanting Pique’s opinion on the matter to be overlooked, Duck said, “I’m happy to go anywhere you want to go, Pique,” to which Lillie quickly nodded in agreement.

“Hmm,” Pique touched her lips thoughtfully. “How about G Migliucci?* I’ve heard people say their food is good, and decently priced as well. As much as I would love to try something ritzy, it might be a while before I have a job again and I’d like to have a little extra dough in my pocket in the meantime,” she said with a sheepish wink.

“Sounds good to me!” Lillie rejoined happily. “Mother doesn’t like Italian food—too much garlic, she says. So the only chance I get to have it is when I eat with you gals.”

Duck was about to agree when her eyes fell on Zurab from across the room. The toddler was quietly flipping through a picture book and Duck whispered, “Um, can we bring Zurab along? Mr. Kotin will be gone for a bit too, and I can’t leave him here by himself…”

“Of course! That should be fine,” answered Pique. “G Migliucci is a family joint, so I’m sure they’re okay with kids.”

Once lunch plans were agreed upon, the girls set out for Arthur Avenue and arrived at the restaurant, and were seated with their food ready in no time.

After polishing off their meals, Pique dabbed away a smudge of tomato sauce from her lips with a napkin and leaned back in her chair.

“So,” Pique began, looking around the table at Duck and Lillie, who had also just finished their meals, “have the two of you talked about who’s staying?”

Lillie and Duck looked at one another and solemnly shook their heads in unison. “I was thinking,” Lillie began, “maybe I’ll look into Macy’s or Bloomingdales. But all the girls who work there seem like such high hats; no sense of humor at all.”

Pique, her arms folded across her chest, tipped her chin in agreement. “Big department stores are like that. They want you to look and act a certain way, and you’re such a live wire, Lillie. To be level with you, I don’t think you suit those places.”

Lillie let out a loud sigh. With her elbows on the table, she rested her face between her hands and pouted. “Maybe I really should give this writing thing a try… but writing is so hard! It’s one thing to come up with grand ideas, but it’s another to fill in the dialogues and have it all make sense!”

Pique smiled sympathetically at Lillie’s dilemma before turning to Duck, “What about you, Duck?”

The red-head who started at the sound of her name. “Um…” Duck glanced from side to side, averting eye contact with anyone. “…I haven’t really thought about what to do…”

“Do you want to stay at the shop?” Pique asked bluntly as Lillie looked on.

“I…” Duck gulped, her palms sweating at the barrage of questions. _I do, because I don’t know anything else!_ Duck’s voice whispered in her mind.

Glancing at Lillie, Duck didn’t want to openly admit it, but she knew if given a choice, Lillie would rather stay as well. _But there’s only one spot… so one of us has to go…_

Sensing Duck’s distress, Pique changed the subject. Looking at the mint-haired toddler sitting across from her, she quipped, “Zurab has been awfully quietly all week, hasn’t he? Is he feeling alright?”

“Huh? Oh…” Silently grateful for the change in topic, Duck also turned to look at Zurab, whose mouth was covered in tomato sauce from the pizza he was eating. “I think Zurab misses Miss Edel, as well as his mother, who’s recovering at a sanitorium.”

“Are you having fun right now, Zurab?” Lillie asked sweetly, trying to encourage the little boy to speak, but only received a fleeting glance and no response.

With everyone at the table now focused on Zurab, Duck grew concerned with the others. Despite having lived with Zurab for only three days thus far, Duck also had noticed Zurab’s uncharacteristic reticence. Hoping to draw a response from Zurab, Duck said, “Say, Zurab, do you want to go to the zoo again? We can go again this weekend, if you’d like.”

But to everyone’s surprise, Zurab shook his head.

At a loss, Duck asked, “Do you want to go somewhere to play? Have you been to Coney Island?”

“Great idea! You can ride the Thunderbolt before the park closes for the season!* I had such a thrill when I went this summer!” Pique chimed in, then abruptly stopped herself, “…On second thought, they don’t let little kids on those rides. It’s probably not safe for someone his age.”

“He can ride the Wonder Wheel!” Lillie suggested, hands clasped together eagerly. “You can see a gorgeous view of the ocean from the top! Perfect for a date and a little petting!”

“Lillie, petting is for adults. That’s hardly appropriate for a little kid!” Pique whispered flatly.

“Oh, but just imagine it! The dramatic colors of sunset in the distant horizon! Electric lights reflecting off the ocean waves at night…!”

As Lillie went off on another dramatic tangent, Duck took the moment to pat Zurab on the head and said softly, “Is there any place _you_ would like to go to, Zurab?”

Zurab stuck a tomato-sauce-coated finger in his mouth, his round blue eyes looking down at his plate. After a moment, he turned to her and said, “Can Zurab go to a park, zura?”

This wasn’t the answer Duck had expected, but seeing that Zurab was talking again, Duck encouraged him, “Of course! Do you want to go to a park with a playground?”

“No,” Zurab answered, again to Duck’s bewilderment. Raising his hands and spreading them wide, the familiar excitement in Zurab’s voice returned a little as he gestured, “a _big_ park! Can Duck take Zurab to a big park?”

“A big park?” Duck thought about this for a moment. “Well, the biggest park in New York is Central Park… but that might be a little _too_ big?”

By now Lillie and Pique had turned their attention back to them and Pique offered, “What about Bronx Park? It’s a lot closer, and even though it’s not as big as Central Park, for a child it’s still quite a large park to explore.”

Duck nodded. Back to Zurab, she said, “Alright! Would you like to go tomorrow, Zurab?”

“Ja, zura!” the child yelped happily.

And so, the following day, with Zurab beside her, Duck stepped off the tram in front of Bronx Park. Setting off into the still-green acres of the park, they passed other families, and paused to watch the squirrels scurry between the tree branches.

In contrast to their visit to the Bronx Zoo, which was located less than a mile from where they were now, Zurab took in the idyllic sights with a quiet but attentive gaze. There was no excited chatter from him, and the toddler seemed content to walk in pace with Duck, making no attempt to run ahead as he had done at the zoo. This behavior left Duck puzzled, all the more so given that Zurab has specifically requested to come to the park.

Following the path along the bubbling Bronx River, they approached a gentle bend where a wooden bench was nestled under a towering Mediterranean cypress tree. Thinking this quiet spot might be a good place to take a break, Duck pointed to the bench, “Do you want to rest and have some snacks, Zurab?”

Zurab nodded and after taking a seat, Duck took out a paper bag containing snacks she had prepared earlier in the day and handed it to Zurab. Watching him crunch on a potato chip, Duck asked, “Say, Zurab, why did you want to come to the park?”

Zurab twisted his lips as though trying to find the words to answer. Finally, the toddler said, “Zurab likes parks, zura. Deda and Mama used to take Zurab to the park, zura!”

 _Ah, that makes sense!_ Duck thought. More quietly, Duck ventured, “Do you miss your mama, Zurab?”

“Ja, zura,” the child answered affirmatively, then added forlornly, “but Zurab miss Deda, too. Dieda went to see Deda, but Zurab can’t see Deda.”

Duck began to nod in understanding, but stopped and looked at Zurab. “Wait… but I thought Miss Edel went to see your mama, not your papa?”

Zurab blinked, perplexed by Duck’s confusion. “Dieda went to see Deda, not Mama, zura,” the child repeated, and finally something clicked in Duck’s brain.

“Oh! I see, Deda is mama, and Mama is papa, er, right?” Duck said to herself, realizing that she had gotten English and Georgian mixed up. Laughing in embarrassment, Duck returned to her earlier question and asked haltingly, “Er, so… did you used to go to the park a lot with your parents, then?”

Zurab once again took a moment before answering, “A long, long time ago, zura. After Deda and Zurab came on the big ship, Deda sometimes took Zurab to a park, but not after Deda went away, zura.”

“Do you miss your Deda, Zurab?” Duck asked gently, and as she expected, Zurab nodded his round little chin.

“Deda would play with Zurab,” the toddler answered softly, so soft that the birds and the sound of the breeze in the background nearly drowned out the child’s voice, and it made Duck’s heart tighten.

 _Poor child… Maybe playing a game will cheer him up, especially if it’s a game he’s familiar with and enjoys._ “What kind of games? Like hide-and-seek? Or tag? We can play together if you’d like!”

Again, Zurab shook his head. “Deda and Zurab play “Как Вас зовут”! Does Duck know “Как Вас зовут”?”*

At this question, Duck was left stumped. She was unable to repeat the name of the game, much less have any idea what it entailed. “Um, I’ve never played that game before… how do you play it?”

Zurab grinned, evidently energized by Duck’s interest. Eagerly, he answered, “Duck and Zurab walk around, zura. When someone talks to Zurab and asks Zurab what his name is, Zurab get a point when he answers, ‘Elene’! If someone asks Zurab where he’s from, Zurab gets _two_ points when he answers, ‘on a farm’! After twenty points, Deda gives Zurab a prize, zura!”

“Oh…” This answer only left Duck even more confused. _Miss Edel did say Zurab enjoys wearing dresses, so maybe “Elene” is an in-joke of some sort between Zurab and his mother_ , she pondered.

Handing Zurab a handkerchief to wipe his hands with, Duck tried to keep the conversation going by asking, “I didn’t know you were born on a farm, Zurab. What kind of farm was it?”

But Zurab shook his head again. “Zurab came from a city—not big-big like here, and not so, so many people, but there were lots of tall buildings, zura!”

“So you _weren’t_ born on a farm?” Duck curled her eyebrows. None of the things Zurab said made any sense, and at this point Duck felt as lost as a babe in the woods. “Why are those the rules?” she couldn’t help but ask.

“That’s what Deda told Zurab,” Zurab responded, and with a grin, repeated, “But if Zurab gets twenty points, Deda gives Zurab chocolate as a prize!”

Finally hearing something about this game that she could understand, Duck perked up. “So you like chocolate, then?”

Zurab nodded emphatically, causing the stray curl of hair on top of his head to bob in time with his chin. “Ja! For Zurab’s birthday, Dede would give Zurab chocolate cake! Zurab loves chocolate cake, zura!”

“We actually just had chocolate cake a few days ago, for Fakir’s birthday!” Duck smiled.

Staring hopefully at Duck, Zurab said, “Is there cake for Zurab?”

“Eh…” Duck scratched her cheeks, regretting what she said earlier as she admitted, “Sorry, but there isn’t any left. But you know what?” she followed quickly as the toddler’s eyes drooped in visible disappointment. “We can make a chocolate cake together! I saw a stove-top chocolate cake recipe the other day. It’s pretty simple. We can try and make it at home tomorrow!”

“Chocolate cake! Chocolate cake!” Zurab began to chant excitedly.

Seeing Zurab happy and excited again, Duck couldn’t help but smile as well, and for a moment, she could forget about her own troubles. Joining hands with Zurab once again, and with a little added pep in their steps, continued their trek through Bronx Park.

* * *

When Fakir walked up the stairs Sunday afternoon with half a week’s worth of mail tucked under his arm, he nearly jumped when two loud metallic “thuds” came from Duck’s apartment. _What on earth is she getting up to?_ The detective wondered warily.

He knocked lightly on Duck’s apartment door. “Duck? Are you alright in there?” the detective called through the door panel, but he’d barely finished his sentence when the door opened and Zurab, with clothes and hands covered in flour, grasped Fakir by his coat and pulled him into the apartment.

“Duck is making chocolate cake, zura!” the child yelled, and Fakir’s eyes grew wide at the sight of Duck’s upended kitchen. Bowls, spoons, tins of sugar and cocoa, and an opened bag of flour sat jumbled on the dining table while canned foods, cereal, and other items from Duck’s pantry lay in disarray on the kitchen floor.

Duck, wearing a striped buttercup apron, was standing with her head buried in the top shelf of her cupboard, her feet balanced precariously on a small wooden stool.

“What was that noise I just heard?” Fakir asked, his eyebrows cocked as he surveyed the mess around him.

Retracting her head from behind the panels of the cupboard, the red-head laughed sheepishly when she saw Fakir staring aghast at her from the kitchen doorway.

“Oh! Hi, Fakir! Sorry, I tipped over some of the cans and they fell on the floor!”

“I see… but what are you looking for, and what happened here?” Fakir gestured at the cluttered kitchen space as Zurab let go of the dark-haired man and stood next to Duck, who gingerly stepped down from the stool.

“I’m trying to make a stove-top chocolate cake for Zurab, but I just realized I don’t have any eggs or enough butter,” Duck answered, her sheepish expression giving way to worry as Zurab hovered expectantly by her side.

Reaching behind her back to undo her apron, she begged her neighbor, “Could you please watch Zurab for me while I go to the grocer’s? It shouldn’t take me more than half an hour.”

Duck’s hand paused when Fakir touched her arm. “You stay with Zurab; I can go instead. How many eggs and how much butter do you need?”

“Are you sure?” Duck began, but Fakir was already making his way back towards his apartment.

“Yes! Just let me put the mail down and change my coat,” Fakir said, grimacing at the set of white hand prints on his beige-colored coat. Depositing the mail on his desk, Fakir opened his closet and pulled out the gray woolen coat Rachel had gifted him as an early birthday present.

Shrugging it onto his shoulders and plopping on his hat, Fakir found Duck waiting at her doorway as he exited his apartment. “Thank you, Fakir. I just need four eggs, and one stick of butter will be enough. Let me know how much it is and I’ll pay you back!” Duck smiled gratefully, the look of relief evident on her face.

The sight of Duck’s smile made Fakir’s heart skip a little. Doing his best to look cool and collected, he nodded curtly. “Don’t worry about it. I will be right back!”

Once his door was locked, Fakir turned and made his way down the stairs. Outside, a chilly autumn breeze swept past, making the detective pull up the collar of the coat and pull down his hat against the wind.

 _I should’ve brought a scarf,_ the detective rued, but carried on as he made his way towards the grocer a few blocks away.

Turning a corner, he passed a stooped figure in a long black coat. As Fakir passed by the figure’s footsteps stilled and a pair of small dark eyes looked back in Fakir’s direction from under the rim of the man’s matching black fedora. But after a second, the figure turned and continued in the direction Fakir had come.

Back in her apartment, Duck and Zurab stood in front of the dining table and began measuring out the dry ingredients for the cake.

“Let’s see, I remember the recipe said one cup of flour…” Duck poured the measured flour into a mixing bowl while Zurab—the top of his head barely clearing the table—watched keenly from the side. “…and half a cup of cocoa powder,” Duck said as she opened the tin of cocoa and inserted a spoon inside.

But to her dismay, instead of hitting fine cocoa powder, the spoon glanced off as if it had struck a rock instead. Peering into the tin and shaking it about, Duck saw that the cocoa powder inside had solidified into a hard, brown lump. Putting the tin to her nose, Duck made a face at the scent of the old cocoa, and it was clear that the product she had was unusable.

“Drat!” Duck sighed heavily. _I should’ve checked all of the ingredients before I started,_ the red-head ran a hand through her hair. Not wanting to wait for Fakir and trouble him a second time, Duck began to take off her apron once again.

“Sorry, Zurab, but I have to go buy some cocoa,” Duck said hurriedly, glancing quickly at the little boy. “The dry goods store is close by and I’ll only be gone for a few minutes. Will you be alright by yourself for a little while?”

Zurab gave Duck a small nod and Duck in turn gave the boy a quick hug. “Great! Be careful, okay? Don’t climb on the windows or touch the stove, alright?”

“Zurab knows, zura,” the child answered solemnly as Duck grabbed her wallet and coat.

“Okay, I will be right back!” Duck said and closed the door. As she reached for her key, Duck turned when she heard the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs behind her. _Is Fakir back already?_ she wondered.

However, it was not Fakir who emerged at the top of the stairs, but a stooped figure with wide shoulders. Seeing Duck, the man looked up and Duck found herself staring into a pair of small, dark eyes that were eerily familiar.

“Hey, ya know where a fella named Fakir Romei-rath live-th?” the man said with a pronounced lisp as he walked up to Duck.

Duck heard the distorted speech coming from the man’s lips, and the image on the photograph Fakir had shown her came flooding back from her memories. The blood drained from Duck’s face.

“Um… um, no… I…” Duck’s feet staggered backward as the man she recognized as Worm Tongue halted in front of her. She tried to fumble for the doorknob behind her back while stammering, “I-I don’t know a Fakir Romeiras…”

But the broad-shouldered man did not move. His beady eyes leering at her, Worm Tongue straightened his back and stretched out his shoulders. As if he were a snake uncoiling and rearing up to reveal its true size, the giant man’s shadow grew until he completely eclipsed Duck.

In a flash, his hand seized her forearm and jerked her toward him until Duck could see her reflection in his eyes.

“I recognize you… you’re that broad who wa-th with him!” Worm Tongue muttered at Duck’s face.

By now Duck’s heart was pounding wildly, and she tried to pull away, but that only made Worm Tongue tighten his vice grip painfully around her arm to the point where if felt as though he would snap her arm in two.

“Let me go—!” she cried, pain as well as fear shooting through every fiber of her body, but her voice was reduced to a whimper when the cold, hard tip of a gun barrel was pushed under her chin.

“One more sound outta ya and I’ll blow your brain-th out, ya hear?” Worm Tongue hissed before roughly dragging Duck towards the stairs. “You’re coming with me!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized as I was editing this chapter that what is happening in-story to Duck is now unfortunately also happening to a lot of people in the real-world as a result of the COVID-19 pandemic. To my readers and their families whose lives have been impacted by the pandemic, you have my thoughts and best wishes. Though this chapter got a bit heavy at times (and ended on a cliff-hanger, no less) I hope it was able to help entertain you and maybe brighten your day, just a little bit.
> 
> *”Russkaya” is the Romanized spelling of “Русская”, which is Russian for the feminine form of “Russian” i.e. the people of Russia. Thanks to Zerozeroren on Tumblr for help with the translation!
> 
> *My head-canon for Pique in this universe is that her family is Hispanic, specifically Puerto Rican American, but until now I never had an opportunity to delve into her background. Pique’s second last name is taken from her English voice actress, Cynthia Martinez, while her given name was inspired by Pura Belpré, who was a writer and folklorist and the first Puerto Rican librarian in New York City. Many Spanish and Hispanic last names are a combination of the father and mother’s surnames. As for why Pique goes by “Pique” and not “Pura”, my idea is that when she was born, due to a clerical error at the hospital, her full name was mistakenly registered as “Pique Martinez” instead of “Pura Pique-Martinez”. Her parents had it corrected when Pique was still a baby, but the name “Pique” stuck and even though it’s technically part of her last name, it’s the name everyone knows and addresses her by.
> 
> *$3 in 1925 is around $29.48 in 2020. To put this into perspective, back in 1925 an entree such as Chicken a la King at a high-end restaurant in New York City was around 85 cents, while meals at more affordable cafeterias-style restaurants cost 10 cents or less. 
> 
> *While the locations of the pointe shoe shop and Duck and Fakir’s apartment are entirely fictional, G Mugliucci is a real place. Now known as Mario’s Restaurant, it’s a famous old-school Italian-American restaurant that’s been at 2342 Arthur Ave in the “Little Italy” area of Bronx, New York since 1919. The restaurant was originally known as G Mugliucci, a small restaurant with six tables that sold simple foods like escarole in broth and pizza at 5 cents a slice. The name was changed to Mario’s Restaurant in the 1930’s when Mario Mugliucci took over the family business and changed it into the fine dining restaurant that it’s still known as today. 
> 
> *The Thunderbolt is actually the name of two different rollercoasters at Coney Island. The original Thunderbolt was a wooden coaster and opened to the public in 1925, the year of this story. It was torn down and replaced with a new steel Thunderbolt coaster in 2014. The Wonder Wheel is a Ferris wheel located at Deno’s Wonder Wheel Amusement Park, and it first opened in 1920. 
> 
> *“Как Вас зовут?” (Romantized as “Kak Vas zovut?”) is Russian for “What is your name?” Thanks once again to Zerozeroren for their assistance in translation!
> 
> As ever, a big “thank you” to Tomoyo Ichijouji for her help with proof-reading and editing!


	9. Chapter 9

Feeling the cold barrel of the pistol pressed into her chin, Duck could only let out a whimper as Worm Tongue began dragging her towards the stairs. Duck tried to resist, but against Worm Tongue’s strength, she was as helpless as a flower being plucked from its stem.

“DUCK, DUCK, DUCK, DUCK, DUCK!!”

A rancorous high-pitched chant, accompanied by a series of loud bangs, suddenly erupted from behind Duck’s door. The sudden commotion made Worm Tongue flinch, and he released his grip on Duck’s arm as the neighbor slammed open their door.

“What in tarnation is going on?!” an annoyed Meredith yelled, whipping her head left and right down the hallway but only finding Duck sitting slumped over on the floor.

Just as suddenly as the noise began, it stopped, and the doorknob of Duck’s apartment jiggled before Zurab pushed open the door.

“Duck sounded like she was in trouble. Is Duck alright, zura?” the child asked gravely and hurried out to stand next to his caretaker.

Duck, her heart pounding against her ribcage and her legs numb and useless, could only hear the thumping of her pulse in her ears. Looking at Zurab with bewilderment, Duck saw the man who had threatened her moments earlier had disappeared without a trace. With the distant voices of Zurab and her neighbor barely registering, a dreadful thought surfaced in Duck’s mind.

_Oh God, Fakir! What if that man runs into Fakir? I have to warn him!_

Forcing her muscles to move, Duck grasped the doorknob, and using it as leverage, lifted herself from the floor. Before Duck could give chase, her eyes caught on Fakir’s doormat on the floor next to her. An idea came to Duck, one far more sensible than what her panicked impulses had been goading her to do, and her unsteady feet turned toward Fakir’s apartment.

Reaching under the thin doormat, she pulled out the spare key Fakir had placed there months earlier. Her hands shaking, she undid the lock and stumbled into his bedroom. Bracing herself with one hand on the desk, she snatched up the telephone earpiece and the seconds seemed to pass like hours until a telephone exchange operator answered.

“Hello, what number—”

“The police!” Duck shouted. “Hurry, please! This is urgent!”*

* * *

Emerging from the grocer, Fakir shifted his hand around the brown paper bag cradled in his arm. Peering in, the dark-haired man wondered if getting the four eggs Duck had requested would be enough.

 _Should I have gotten eight instead? Duck isn’t a bad cook, but judging by her attempt to make poached eggs, she doesn’t always get things right the first time…_ he thought with a grin, but quickly sobered when he realized that Duck more than likely would take offense to that idea.

 _Better not to chance it… she might be named after a bird, but even birds will peck when angered,_ Fakir mused as a smile returned to his lips, and he began making his way home.

Approaching a crosswalk, Fakir paused when the distant wail of sirens reached his ear. Looking around and wondering where the commotion was coming from, Fakir saw two police cars coming towards him from up the street.

Seeing no signs of smoke or fire, Fakir wondered if there had been some sort of accident somewhere around the neighborhood. Watching the cars zoom by, he continued walking in their wake. But when both cars suddenly made a right turn onto Lake Avenue, a small seed of concern began to germinate in Fakir’s mind.

Picking up his pace, Fakir jogged towards home. But as he got closer, the wails of police sirens only grew louder and more numerous until it seemed a chorus of sirens was crying into the afternoon sky. 

When Fakir finally rounded the last corner, his eyes grew wide at the sight of four police cars parked outside his apartment building. Breaking into a sprint, he dove across the street, startling fellow officers as he rushed by them and up the stairs.

When the top of his floor came into view, the dread in Fakir’s stomach only grew when he saw half a dozen officers hovering by the opened doors to his and Duck’s apartment. The officers were busy speaking to one another and interviewing Fakir’s elderly neighbors. Beyond the sea of faces blocking the hallway, Fakir’s eyes picked out the familiar lock of unruly copper hair atop Duck’s head as she sat in his apartment, Zurab and a police officer standing beside her.

“Duck!” Fakir cried out, rushing into his apartment.

But before his feet could make it through the door, he was blocked by an unfamiliar police officer who barked, “Hey, not so fast! Who are you?”

Fakir’s eyes snapped to the officer, who started involuntarily at his irate gaze. “I’m Sergeant Fakir Romeiras of the New York City Police Department, and I _live_ here!”

At the sound of Fakir’s voice, other officers paused what they were doing and a murmur began to ripple through the ranks as the detective pushed past the officer who tried to stop him.

“Hey, isn’t that Fakir from the 53rd precinct?”

“Wait, this is his apartment? Then who’s the girl?”

Inside, the commotion had reached Duck’s ears and she looked up from her seat, her face still ashen white. At the sight of Fakir, Duck drew a deep sigh of relief. The officer who had been interviewing Duck made way as Fakir hurriedly set his hat and the bag of groceries on the dining table and knelt down in front of her.

“Are you alright?” Fakir asked urgently, tenderly touching Duck’s cheek and felt the tremors in her body as she took in shallow, unsteady breathes of air. Ignoring the curious glances and whispers behind his back, Fakir reached for her hand and met Duck’s nervous blue eyes.

“What happened?”

“I-I’m alright…” Duck answered faintly. Sitting with one hand over her left forearm, she interlaced her fingers with his, and the reassuring warmth from his hand radiated into her cold fingertips. “I…” the red-head began, but Zurab, who had been watching attentively, perked up.

“A bad man who talks funny grabbed Duck, zura!” the child exclaimed excitedly and pointed to the door with his drumsticks. “He tried to make Duck go with him, but Zurab scared him away by playing his drums, zura!” the little boy concluded by banging once on his little toy drum.

“‘A man who talks funny…’?” Fakir’s heart ran cold. As he looked back at Duck, the young woman gave a small nod, confirming Fakir’s worst fears.

Opening her mouth to speak, Duck stopped when she felt a hard squeeze from Fakir’s hand. She looked up and found the deep creases in Fakir’s brows and the clenched lines of his jaw. Though he did not meet her gaze, his livid green eyes reminded Duck of their first meeting when her life had first intersected with the city’s underworld. Then, as now, Fakir had knelt next to her, his eyes burning with anger as she sat, dazed and unnerved.

 _It’s like history is repeating itself again…_ Duck thought with heavy eyes.

Behind them, Charon appeared at the top of the stairs. Giving a quick nod to the other officers, the captain paused and blinked in surprise when he saw Fakir kneeling in front of Duck, their intertwined hands on her lap. Charon’s bushy brow furrowed. Exhaling softly, he stepped into the room.

At the sight of Charon, the officer who had been interviewing Duck tilted his head in acknowledgement, “Captain Sideros, sir.”

Two pairs of eyes shot up at the sound of Charon’s name. Fakir sprang up, releasing Duck’s hand.

“Charon, what are you doing here?” Fakir asked, surprise momentarily masking his anger.

“I received a call from Batson, who overheard from dispatch that there was an attempted kidnapping reported on Lake Avenue,” Charon explained, looking from Fakir to Duck. “I knew that was where the two of you lived, so I instructed dispatch to send units over right away. But I wanted to make sure the two of you were safe, so I came as well. What happened? Are the two of you alright?”

“I’m fine…” Duck began. She raised her hand from her arm to try and wave off the captain’s concern, but the action revealed the red and blue bruises that had emerged on her left forearm. The sight of the distinctive handprint-shaped bruise drew a deep scowl from the seasoned officer and the captain turned to an officer behind him.

“Dennis, go see if you can find some ice!” the gray-haired captain instructed.

As the officer dashed off, Charon said gently but with grave concern to Duck, “We should have someone take a look at your arm, Miss Stannus. Are you sure you don’t have any other injuries? The man who attacked you, did he touch you anywhere else?”

“Um… no, he only grabbed my arm…” Duck’s eyes flinted to Fakir and she could see the disquiet on Fakir’s face intensifying as he stared wide-eyed at the injury on her arm. “I-It hurts a little… but I think it’s just a bruise…”

“Do you know the person who attacked you?” the captain asked.

Duck, weary from her ordeal, nevertheless duly recounted what had happened earlier in the day. By the time she had finished, the grave expression on Charon’s face had grown heavier, while Fakir stood silently with his eyes narrowed, hands balled tightly into fists. 

For a long moment, no one in their group spoke. The silence was only broken when Officer Dennis returned with a block of ice wrapped in a towel for Duck. Charon touched his chin contemplatively as Duck gingerly applied the ice to her arm, and many sets of eyes turned to the senior officer when he spoke.

“Without a doubt, Anthony Vermi—or Worm Tongue, as he’s known—lives up to the reputation the Corvo gang had made for themselves. He shares their penchant for violence and recklessness. If he was bold enough to attempt a kidnapping in broad daylight, one can only imagine what else this madman is willing to attempt. We must find him as soon as possible!”

To Duck, Charon said, “In the meantime, Miss Stannus, I think it would be safest if you stayed at a hotel for a few days while we conduct our search.”

Though he meant well, Charon’s suggestion resurrected memories in Duck’s mind from the last time she was in the similar predicament. “W-Will the Marshals be involved again? I…” The red-head shuddered, her mind racing as a familiar fear clawed its way up from the recesses of her memories.

_If I left home again, there’s no guarantee I’ll be able to return!_

Teetering on the edge of panic, Duck pleaded, “Must I? I-I don’t want to have to have to leave my home again, Captain!”

Seeing the distress his suggestion caused, Charon held up a placating hand. “No one will make you do anything, Miss Stannus. After everything that you’ve been through, I can completely understand why you would not want to leave your home. Instead of having you move, I will station two officers outside your building until we locate Vermi. I don’t think he will come back here, at least, not any time soon. But we will make sure he is found and arrested before he has the opportunity to attempt a second act.”

When Duck nodded mutely in acquiescence, Charon turned to two of the officers nearby to arrange a watch on the building. The officer who had been taking down Duck’s statement earlier turned back to her to continue their conversation, and for a moment everyone seemed to have forgotten about Fakir’s presence. 

As Fakir stood in the middle of his apartment, the many voices around him were but a distant hum of disjointed noises. The only clear voice that Fakir could hear—looping endlessly like a mobius strip—was his own thoughts as he layered damning recriminations upon himself.

_I should’ve been here… she wouldn’t have gotten hurt if I had been here!_

Fakir could feel the sting of his nails digging into the palm of his hand, but that discomfort paled in comparison to the piercing guilt in his chest. Those feelings, like a pair of undertakers, uncovered memories from all the times he had been powerless to stop death and pain from visiting the people he loved.

From him as a child, wanting desperately but failing to describe the faces of the men who murdered his parents, to the hollowness he felt when he found out that Duck had traded her freedom and identity for his life, and to the dreaded moment when he learnt Mytho had kidnapped Duck at gunpoint.

Today, once again, Duck had come perilously close to a repetition of that terrifying ordeal. But unlike Mytho, who had no ill will towards Duck and went out of his way to protect her, Fakir was certain Worm Tongue had only dark designs in store for the girl, had he managed to abscond with her. Like a monster whose shadowy tendrils had risen from the grave, the fragments of the monster that was the Corvo gang continued to plague the world of the living. And just like when he was a child, Fakir was utterly helpless as the monster once again lashed out at those closest to him.

Lost in his internal maelstrom, Fakir almost didn’t hear Charon’s voice when he said, “I think Kenneth is almost done taking down Miss Stannus’ statement, and I think the rest of the boys are almost done as well. I’ll leave Patrick and Thomas here to guard the building. I’ll go back to the precinct and assemble a task force to start looking for Vermi.”

“I’m coming with you,” Fakir said thickly. Diving into his room, Fakir scooped up the revolver he kept under his pillow and jammed it into his coat pocket. But when Charon saw what Fakir was doing, he grasped the younger detective’s shoulder before Fakir could walk past him.

“No, you stay here, Fakir,” Charon said firmly.

“I’m going to go find him! I can’t let him get away with this!” Fakir snapped and tried to push away Charon’s hand.

But the older detective refused to let go of the furious young man. “Don’t be daft!” Charon said sternly.

More softly, he continued, “I know you are upset. But based on what Miss Stannus told us, Anthony Vermi came looking for _you_ , Fakir. _You_ are his primary target! You are in just as much, if not more danger, than Miss Stannus is at this very moment! This man has already clearly shown he’s ready and willing to carry out the threats he’s made against you, and having you go out there actively looking for him will only put you in the direct line of fire.”

Fakir’s nostrils flared, but he made no attempt to push past Charon.

Looking around, Charon continued, “There are too many things we don’t know right now. I know you can’t stay holed up here forever, but give me at least a day to sort the situation out. In the meantime,” the gray-haired officer glanced worriedly at Duck over Fakir’s shoulder, “stay with Miss Stannus. She’s already gone through a lot with what had happened with Principe, and now this… I cannot imagine any human being enduring three kidnapping attempts in one year like she has.”

The captain expelled a heavy sigh and turned back to Fakir, whose shoulders had slackened beneath Charon’s firm hand. When Fakir spoke again, the burning fury in his voice had smoldered into a simmering reproach. “Everything should’ve ended after that day in Chicago. Duck was supposed to get her life back…”

“That’s what we would like to believe,” Charon said quietly, and gave Fakir’s shoulder a light pat before returning his hand to his side.

Reaching up to adjust his hat, Charon grimaced. “We are led to believe the story ends after the last page turns or the curtains close. But real life is rarely neat and tidy like the endings in books and movies.”

Around them, the officers on scene began to wrap up and file out of the apartment. Charon, after asking after Duck one more time, bid his farewell. Before long, Duck and Fakir were alone as the last departing officer closed the door behind him.

In the eerie silence that followed, neither Fakir nor Duck spoke. After several moments, Duck slowly rose from her seat. Beside her, Zurab watched as the red-head picked up the bag of groceries that Fakir had dropped off on the dining table.

“Thank you for getting these…” Duck said quietly, her eyes turned away from Fakir as she stepped towards the door. “I’ll go back and finish the cake now. Come on, Zurab,” she called to the little boy who silently toddled up to her.

“Are you really alright?” Fakir asked, his concerned gaze flitting once again to the bruise on Duck’s arm. Reaching for the bag, he began, “Let me help—”

“No,” Duck muttered, her voice hoarse, and Fakir’s hands stilled. Clearing her throat, Duck tried to push a reassuring smile to her lips, but only succeeded in giving the young man a wan, lopsided frown.

“I’m fine… really. I just…” Duck’s voice trailed off and she turned away. Fakir watched as she exited his apartment and stepped inside her home. He followed her into the hallway but the door clicked shut behind her.

Placing his palm against the rough wood grain of Duck’s door, Fakir could hear loud, clattering noises coming from within. Inside her kitchen Duck placed the bag on the table, and laid out the eggs and butter. But rather than returning to making the cake, she began to aimlessly shuffle and rearrange the utensils and ingredients, seemingly at a loss for what to do.

Eventually Duck’s eyes came back to the carton of eggs and a little spark of recollection returned. _That’s right, I need to add eggs… how many eggs was I supposed to use again?_

Duck frowned as her rattled mind failed to retrieve information she knew she recalled earlier in the day. Growing frustrated with her lack of recollection, Duck’s fingers raked through her coppery hair. _Was it three? No, there are four eggs here… it must be four, right?_

With unsteady hands, she picked up an egg and cracked it into the mixing bowl. As she picked up a second egg, a loud “BOOM!” from outside her window made her jerk around, causing the egg to slip from her hand and splatter onto the floor next to the table.

Clutching her hands to her chest, Duck blinked rapidly like a startled deer before recognizing the noise she heard as the innocuous sound of a car engine backfiring. Releasing her grip on her shirt, Duck turned her focus to the puddle of broken yolk and shells by her feet and groaned at the mess she had made.

Duck picked up a dish towel and began to mop up the shattered egg. As she tried to reach around the table leg, a sharp twinge of pain shot up her injured arm. Biting down on her lower lip, Duck stifled a whimper but despite her best efforts she could not stop the tremor from her lips from traveling like a wave through the rest of her body.

Zurab watched silently as Duck sat unmoving on the floor, his short brows pinched in worry and confusion. With an uncharacteristically hesitant voice, he asked softly, “Duck is adding the eggs, zura. But can Duck make a chocolate cake if there’s no cocoa, zura?”

“Ah!” Duck’s blue eyes shot up. “That’s right, the cocoa, I was going to…!” Duck gasped, but as she eyed the door an overwhelming sense of dread overcame her. The thought of what awaited her outside that door, looming shadows and towering figures out to hurt her and take her away, turned Duck’s legs to lead.

Beset by this unshakable fear, another tremor welled up inside of Duck, and this time, the red-head could no longer hold back the tears that she had until now held at bay. Covering her hands over her mouth, a sharp wail exited Duck’s throat as pearls of tears trickled from her eyes, forming dark splotches in the fabric of her dress as the droplets fell from her cheeks.

Seeing Duck cry, Zurab hurried over and wrapped his small arms around Duck. “Duck doesn’t have to make chocolate cake, zura! Don’t cry, Duck!” the little boy urged, tears now also rolling down his round cheeks.

Duck nodded but could not quell another sob from forcing its way from her throat. In the hallway, Fakir’s already heavy heart sank even lower when the soft, muffled wails reached his ears. The hand he had on Duck’s door balled into a fist and he raised his hand to knock. But before his knuckles could rap the door's wooden surface, he stopped.

He wanted to rush to her side, to hold her, to comfort her. But the reason why Duck has found herself in this situation was because of him. She was in tears and in pain… all because of him.

_If we had never met, none of this would’ve ever happened to you…_

A familiar refrain echoed in Fakir’s mind, one that he had repeated a million times to himself when she was taken away by Mytho. Now, though only a simple wooden door separated them, to Fakir that door was as impenetrable and immense as a mountain, one that he could not find the courage to cross.

_I promised I’d protect you, but all I’ve done is bring you fear and pain, Duck…_

Pressing his fist against the door, Fakir—his shoulders bowed and eyes cast downward— could only stand and listen as Duck’s sobs gently echoed in the empty corridor, each halting gasp another dagger plunged into his bleeding heart.

A stray ray of sunlight from Fakir’s window found its way through the door and cast deep shadows across the dim hallway. The shadows concealed Fakir’s eyes behind his dark bangs. Though feeble in their strength, the muted light illuminated the shimmering trail of tears streaming down Fakir’s cheek.

_I’m so sorry…_

* * *

Outside the precinct window, the autumn sun had scarcely breached the tops of the buildings. It was not quite 7am, but the joint Homicide and Robbery office was already abuzz with officers starting a new work week.

At his desk, Alex was organizing the documents in his hands when a pair of officers from the Robbery unit walked toward him. As they drew closer, the young officer could not help but overhear their conversation.

“Did you hear about the assault at Fakir’s place yesterday? Someone tried to kidnap the gal who lives next to him,” the stouter of the two officers said, to which his taller companion shook his head.

“That’s awfully brazen. Was it a domestic dispute?” the lanky officer wondered.

But the stout officer shook his head. Lowering his voice, he said, “Kenny from patrol told me the victim believes the kidnapper was actually after Fakir, and that the perp was a former Corvo man.”

At this his companion looked at him in alarm. “Good heavens! It was a retaliatory attack, then? But why go after the girl?”

As they walked past Alex, who sat only three feet away from the walkway, the heavier set man shrugged. “Kenny thinks the gal is Fakir’s girlfriend. She’d called the precinct from his apartment. Apparently, she had a spare key to his place and when Fakir rushed onto the scene, he was really upset and held her hand as he asked after her. Based on that, it’s hard to see them as anything but an item.”

Here the tall officer huffed in astonishment. “To think Fakir would have a steady… wow! Poor girl though, to get dragged into all this…”

As the two men rounded a corner, their conversation also faded from earshot. But Alex, still at his desk, sat with his brows knitted together. Lost in thought over what he’d just overheard, the young detective nearly jumped when Charon spoke up next to him.

“Are you ready for our meeting, Alex?”

“Ah!” Alex looked up sharply before turning back to the paperwork in his hands. “Yes, sir. Just a moment!”

Once he finally had all the documents sorted out, Alex entered Charon’s office. “Any word on how the girl and Sarg are doing?” the young brunet inquired as he closed the door and took a seat in one of two chairs across from the captain’s desk.

“Nothing happened overnight, that I can tell you,” Charon leaned back into his chair, his expression equal parts concern and relief. “Patrick and Thomas had no outstanding events to report on their shift. I haven’t heard back from Ned and Andy yet, but I highly doubt Vermi would try something so brazen again so soon. All the more reason to catch him, before he attempts anything else,” the police captain’s eyes darkened as he rested his hand above his lips. “It has been 18 hours since the city-wide search order went out, but still no sign of him. He’s either hiding out somewhere, or he’s left the city altogether.”

Looking at Alex, the captain asked, “Any responses to the telegrams you’d sent out yesterday afternoon?”

“Yes, sir.” Alex pulled out his notebook and counted off the list he’d written down. “Edison, Trenton and New Haven PD have all telegrammed back yesterday evening, confirming they’d received our bulletin. I’m still waiting to hear back from Philadelphia, Atlantic City, and a few others. I’m hoping we’ll hear back from them soon as the morning rolls by.”

Charon nodded. “Good. As for us here, we have to maintain the pressure on Vermi. I was thinking we should review what we know about Vermi’s habits and see—” 

Before Charon could finish his sentence, the door to the office suddenly opened, and Alex and Charon looked up to see a haggard Fakir standing outside, followed closely behind by a hapless uniformed police officer.

“Fakir, what are you—”

Charon began, but the anxious patrol officer behind Fakir interjected and said, “Sorry, Cap, but Sergeant Romeiras insisted on coming! I-I couldn’t stop him…!”

“It’s alright, Andy,” Charon reassured. “Is Ned still at the house?” When Andy confirmed this, the captain nodded. “Good. Go back and join him. I’ll send people to relieve you shortly.”

With Andy gone, the captain looked back at Fakir, who had been standing wordlessly by the door during this exchange. “It hasn’t been a day yet, has it, Fakir?” Charon asked rhetorically.

When Fakir answered with a muted frown, Charon sighed. “Come in,” he motioned as Alex shifted his chair to make room as Fakir took the remaining seat in the office.

Alex looked on with renewed concern as Fakir hung up his hat by the door, and it did not require a keen eye to see the dark shadows under Fakir’s eyes and the stiffness in his movement, as though he had not slept the entire night.

“You alright, Sarg?” Alex asked quietly, to which Fakir gave a curt nod, but did not meet his partner’s fretful gaze.

To Charon, Fakir responded somberly, “You told me to wait, but this case isn’t just about me, Charon. As a police officer my duty is to serve and protect the people of this city. Anthony Vermi is the prime suspect in my case. I cannot sit by while he is on the lam. I…” Fakir’s hands clenched, “…I owe it to every person this man has hurt to see justice served.”

Across the table Charon stared intently at the haggard detective before the older man gave a faint, knowing smile. “I had a feeling you would say that,” he sighed with resignation.

The gray-haired captain leaned forward, and perching his chin on his folded hands, returned to the matter at hand. “I was just discussing what we should do next regarding Anthony Vermi with Alex. Bulletins were sent to neighboring cities to be on the lookout for Vermi yesterday, and we’ve also notified all precincts in the city as well, but so far, there’s been no traces of him. We were just thinking to reach out to some of his known contacts when you arrived.”

“That’s what I was thinking, too. It may be worth talking to Annie Grant again,” Fakir took out a scrap of paper from a pocket and placed it on the table. Charon picked it up and saw it was the note with Hal’s Ballroom’s address and telephone number. “She’s been the only person who’s been willing to talk at length about Worm Tongue,” Fakir continued, “and I want to talk to her again, just in case there’s something she hasn’t told us.”

“This was the girl you spoke with previously? Do you think she’s been withholding anything from you?” Charon wondered aloud.

The corners of Fakir’s lips curled downward. He recalled the frightened expression on Annie’s face, and Fakir could now appreciate all too well why she was so terrified of Worm Tongue. “…I do think she was being truthful. But she was also clearly scared. She might know more, but she was too scared to tell me.”

Charon nodded solemnly. Meeting Fakir’s eyes, the captain said, “As much as I would prefer you not to place yourself in the crosshairs, you have spoken to her before, and that means she has a degree of trust in you. Alex,” the captain turned to the younger officer who straightened his back as his name was called, “go with Fakir. We have no idea where Vermi might be hiding, but given his connection to Miss Grant, it’s not inconceivable that he might be in the area. Keep an eye out for each other; the last thing I want is for my men to unknowingly walk into the lion’s den.”

* * *

With Fakir behind the wheel and Alex in the passenger seat, the two detectives made their way to Hal’s Ballroom. When their journey was interrupted by a passing freight train at a railroad crossing, Fakir reached into a pocket and tapped out a cigarette.

Watching his mentor struggle to light the match stick, which Alex had seen Fakir perform with a smooth flick of the wrist countless times before, the young detective said, “Sarg, are you sure you don’t want me to drive? Did you eat anything at all today?”

Fakir irritably shook out the used match and flicked it out the window. Taking a long draft on the cigarette, he held it with his teeth as he stubbornly kept his gaze forward. “I told you, I’m fine,” he muttered.

Alex mouthed an “Oh…” and turned his eyes to the seemingly endless parade of boxcars before them. But with each passing carriage, Alex’s mind kept circling back to what he had overheard earlier in the office. Tentatively, he asked, “Your neighbor who was attacked yesterday, Miss Stannus… is she doing alright?”

The crease between Fakir’s eyebrows deepened, and other than the grimace on his face, it seemed to Alex that Fakir wasn’t going to give any other response. Thinking he truly might’ve touched a nerve with that question, Alex sank back into his seat as the clanks and groans of the railcar filled the air.

When the last boxcar finally passed through, Fakir put the car back in gear. Taking the cigarette between his fingers, Alex started when his partner unexpectedly answered, “…I don’t know, honestly. She was pretty badly shaken up, and…” Fakir’s lips parted as though he was about to say more, but the frown his mouth contorted into swallowed those words.

“This whole business with Anthony Vermi is such a strange coincidence,” Alex mused, shaking his head. “We’re working a murder that he’s a prime suspect in, and now he’s coming after you… these Corvo fellas are nothing but endless trouble.”

 _You don’t even know the half of it,_ Fakir thought darkly. It was as though he was chained to a rotating carousel, chasing after the Corvos while they simultaneously chased after him, around and around, in a sick game played by Fate.

 _I can play this game if it was just me who was involved… but to draw Duck back into this twisted mess…_ Fakir’s hands tightened around the steering wheel as they zipped down the street towards Hal’s Ballroom.

Alex, who had been contemplating on his own during this time, opened his mouth but hesitated. After a pause, he finally said quietly but with great sincerity, “Sarg, I… er, I haven’t met Miss Stannus, and I don’t mean to presume anything… but if either of you need anything, let me know, and I’ll do my best to help.”

Fakir, eyes narrowed, glanced at the young man sitting beside him before turning back to the road.

Alex gulped. Watching his mentor nervously, Alex couldn’t be sure if he had just overstepped himself. But after a moment, as the signs for Hal’s Ballroom came into view in the distance, Fakir took a draft of the cigarette and exhaled a stream of smoke.

“Thanks, Alex…”

Alex blinked at the gentleness in Fakir’s voice, a tone he’d rarely heard the detective use in the many months that he had known him.

With his eyes still fixed on the street ahead, Fakir added firmly, “…but I have to try to fix this. I owe it to her—to everyone…”

Alex pursed his lips, as though he wanted to say something in response, but the stonewalled expression on Fakir’s face deterred him. In silence, they pulled over in front of Hal’s Ballroom. The dance hall had just opened for the day and save for the ticket agent, the reception area was deserted. This time, Fakir made no attempt to conceal his identity.

“NYPD, 53rd precinct,” Fakir held out his badge to the bewildered ticket agent. “We need to speak with Annie Grant. Is she here?”

“I, uh,” the bespectacled man looked about frantically, before he exited the ticket counter and turned toward the double doors leading to the dance floor. “Let me check, hold on—!”

But Fakir was in no mood to wait. Stepping in front of the ticket agent, and with Alex on his heels, Fakir marched into the dance hall where several seated women looked up in surprise.

“What’s going on?”

“Who are they?”

Amidst the murmur of female voices, Fakir looked around, but there was no sign of the tall brunette he was looking for. Next to him, Alex cleared his throat and with his own badge in hand, said, “I’m Detective Alex Stone*, and this is my partner, Sergeant Fakir Romeiras. We need to speak to Miss Annie Grant.”

A blonde who was sitting closest to the detectives rose from her seat and Fakir recognized her as the taxi dancer who had tried to accost him on his first visit here. “Annie doesn’t work here anymore. She left five days ago.”

“Why did she leave?” Fakir responded in alarm. “And where did she go?”

“She just told Harold—he’s our boss—that her mother was ill, and that she had to quit,” the blonde answered, her arms crossed defensively. “Based on that, I’d say she went to wherever her folks are. I wasn’t really close with her, so I don’t know where that is. But for all I know, she could also be headed to the other end of the country.”

Alex’s shoulders slumped at the news, but Fakir wasn’t satisfied with that answer. From the blonde woman’s posture, he had a hunch she knew more than she was telling, so he pressed her, “Her mother being ill… do _you_ think that’s the real reason she left?”

The blonde woman’s painted lips creased. “…To tell you the truth? No. Annie left in a hurry all right, but two days before she turned in her notice, I saw ol’ Worm Tongue come out the soda shop across the street. I was just coming in when I saw him step out. He stayed on the other side of the street, and I watched him as he smoked a cigarette.”

“Did he do anything else? Any suspicious behavior that you can recall?” Fakir inquired.

“No, but I wanted to make sure he wasn’t going to try anything funny,” the blonde answered pointedly. “After he made that terrible scene two months ago, we’ve been told to keep an eye out for him and to call security if he tried to come back in. Luckily, Annie wasn’t working that day, and he walked away after he was done with his cigarette. But two days later, Harold received a telegram from Annie sent from Penn Station, saying that she’s quit for the reason I just told you. But if you ask me, she found out Worm Tongue was coming back around again and left because she’s afraid he was looking for her.” 

“Have you seen him again since that day?” Alex asked, pen and notebook in hand.

The blonde shook her head.

Frustrated, Fakir followed up with another question. “Do any of you know how I can get in touch with Annie? It’s urgent that I find her!”

The women in the room shook their heads, and the detective’s heart sank.

“I don’t either, but you can ask at her other job,” said a second blonde, a woman with wavier hair than her outspoken coworker, and both Fakir and Alex perked up at this unexpected piece of information. “Annie worked here for extra cash. Outside of the Ballroom, she works at the cosmetics counter at Bloomingdales on Tuesdays, Thursday, and weekends. She used to love telling stories of famous people she’d see there.”

“Good, we’ll go check there,” Fakir said and turned to leave as Alex quickly wrote down the information in his pocket notepad.

“Oh, and one more thing!” the wavy-haired blonde remarked, drawing the detectives back to her once again. “Annie isn’t her real name. We all call her that, and Annie prefers that name, but her real name is Rina. Rina Rogowski.”

* * *

With their new information in hand, Fakir and Alex wasted no time and made a beeline to Manhattan. To the officers’ annoyance, the management at Bloomingdales proved to be far less helpful than the women at the dance hall. After some initial confusion as to whom the officers were looking for, finally—after three hours and speaking with three different managers—Fakir and Alex were given the address and telephone on file for a Rina Rogowski, who had quit five days earlier.

With that information in hand, the men traveled back up to the Bronx, to the apartment Rina listed as her residence. It took another hour of asking around and calling before the landlord came and let them into the unit. But inside, the detectives only found some old clothes and minor knickknacks, none of which provided a clue as to Rina’s whereabouts.

“Hmph!” the landlord blustered as the detectives wrapped up their interview and exited the building. “Young people are so capricious nowadays. They disappear and move out on you at the drop of a hat! At least I’ll be able to recover some of the lost rent by selling off the things she left behind. Hey! It’s part of the rental agreement,” he said quickly when Alex cast a disapproving glance at him. “If the tenant vacates before the contract expires, I am entitled to any belongings they leave behind!”

After bidding goodbye to the disgruntled landlord, Alex heaved a tired sigh as they got back into the car. “That’s the last known address she’s associated with in the city. We’ll have to start looking further afield from here on out,” he said, resting one hand on the steering wheel. Glancing at his watch, which showed it was creeping close to 2pm, Alex turned to Fakir, who had just opened his third pack of cigarettes for the day. “I think there’s a Childs Restaurant* two blocks from here. We can have lunch there before we head back to the precinct.”

But Fakir gave an uninterested shake of his head, his usually tanned complexion now as pale as the gray smoke curling from the cigarette in his hand. “No, I’m fine. Drop me off at Penn Station and you go on ahead. I need to figure out where she went.”

A perplexed Alex creased his brow. “Shouldn’t we try calling the number that assistant store manager gave us first? That could be her home phone number. Checking that first will probably be a lot faster than trying to track down her itinerary at the station.”

Fakir groaned and ran a hand down his face. “Damn it… you’re right. God, I need to get back to the precinct, then.” Fakir closed his eyes to massage his temples. His head was pounding from a sleepless night, and he was now so tired he could no longer think clearly. Yet, even in the face of exhaustion, Fakir insisted, “It’s an out-of-state number,” he muttered and forced his weary eyes to open again. “I need to make the long-distance call at the office…”

Alex said nothing for a long moment, enough that Fakir noticed and looked askance at his partner.

Taking a deep breath, as though to collect his courage, Alex looked firmly at his mentor and said emphatically, “I know you’re upset, Sarg. But… you’re not going to lay your hands on Worm Tongue by running yourself into the ground like this! I know you want to do right for the Corioli family, that you feel responsible for what happened to Miss Stannus, but… I don’t think you’re doing _anyone_ any favors if you don’t look after yourself.”

Startled by his partner’s uncharacteristic assertiveness, Fakir nearly dropped the cigarette into his lap. Luckily, Fakir remembered the burning roll of tobacco in his hand and tightened his grip before any mishap occurred. Alex, meanwhile, had clammed up and sat with his jaws squared as he averted his gaze out the window.

Expecting Fakir to admonish him, the words that reached Alex’s ears instead were, “You know, you’re the second—no, third—person to tell me that, Alex.”

“Eh?” Alex looked back, and saw a ghost of a smile on Fakir’s face.

Resting his head against the seatback, Fakir tilted his head forward again and gazed at the slowly burning tip of the cigarette. “You could say this is a bad habit of mine. I try to chase after a case so fast that I lose sight of everything around me, including myself…”

Charon had once slapped him for blindly throwing himself at a case with no thought of his own welfare, and Autor had berated him out of concern that he would collapse from exhaustion. He was indeed doing no one a favor, and might even have been giving a boon to the very people he was trying to arrest if he wore himself down into the ground now.

 _Imagine the irony if I worked myself to death while trying to locate the man who is out to kill me—I would be saving Worm Tongue a lot of effort…_ Fakir mused sardonically.

Thinking back to Duck and the helplessness he felt at her door the day before, Fakir sobered again. But this time, instead of giving in to the mad impulse of wanting to do something— _anything_ —to alleviate the crushing weight of powerlessness, Fakir reminded himself that he was not as weak or as alone as he thought.

_She’s safe right now. Charon, Zurab, Autor… even Alex. Everyone is doing what they can to protect her and keep her safe. I will keep looking for Worm Tongue, but there is no need to shoulder everything on my own._

Turning back to Alex, he patted the junior detective on the arm. “I’ll make the call when we get back to the precinct. But first, let’s get lunch.”

* * *

Later that afternoon, Fakir sat at his desk as he dialed the number Rina had left with Bloomingdales. As he and Alex waited for the operator to connect the call, Charon walked past and, seeing the two detectives on the phone, came over to them.

“How is it going?” the older man said quietly.

“We’re waiting for the call to go through. The operator had to look the number up, but apparently it’s a Buffalo number,” Alex answered while Fakir sat with the receiver glued to his ear. “The operator was also able to tell us the number is registered to a Nicholas Rogoswki. We’re thinking this is probably the number for Rina’s parents’ house.”

Charon nodded. At that moment, the line cracked to life and three sets of eyes turned to the black candlestick telephone in Fakir’s hand.

“Hello? Who is this?” an older woman’s voice asked.

“This is Sergeant Fakir Romeiras with the NYPD. Is this the Rogowski house?”

“Um, yes… May I ask why you are calling, officer?”

“Mrs. Rogowski, I presume? Ma’am, I need to speak with Rina. Is she there?”

“Rina?” the woman on the other end hesitated, and by the tone of her voice it was apparent Rina’s mother was agitated and confused by this unexpected call.

“Yes, ma’am,” Fakir pulled the transmitter closer and added urgently, “Is she there? It’s imperative that I speak with her.”

There was a pause and some muffled conversations that Fakir could not make out as Mrs. Rogowski’s voice disappeared from the phone. Alex and Charon were now hovering by Fakir’s shoulders, trying to make out what was being said.

At last, the voice that Fakir knew as Annie Grant emerged on the other end. But before Fakir could speak, she barked, “I don’t have anything to tell you. Please, just go away!”

“Wait! Rina, don’t hang up!” Fakir begged, “I—! We really need to talk to you!”

“I don’t _want_ to talk!” Rina yelled, followed by a choked sob.

Here Charon reached for the phone, which Fakir quickly handed over. In a gentle and paternal voice, Charon said, “Hello? Miss Rogoswki? This is Captain Charon Sideros. I understand you are very upset, but we just want to make sure you are all right. Are you currently safe where you are now? If you feel unsafe, I can give Buffalo PD a call right now and ask them to take you to a safe location. Your wellbeing is of the utmost importance to us.”

“I… yes,” Rina’s voice sniffled.

Charon’s placid tone seemed to have the desired effect on the agitated young woman. She took a moment to take several deep breathes, and when she spoke again her voice was unsteady but quiet. “I’m safe right now. I’m home, at my parents’ house… Why are you calling me? I’ve already told your people everything that I know!”

“Yes, I believe you,” Charon said earnestly, settling into Fakir’s chair as the detective offered his seat to him. “You are upset because of the matter related to Worm Tongue, am I correct? Please believe me when I say we are doing everything we can to locate him. We will not let any harm come to you.”

When Rina made a small, affirmative sound across the line, Charon continued. “Now, the reason we are reaching out to you is because during our investigation, we discovered that you had abruptly left New York City a few days prior. Was the reason for your departure related to Worm Tongue? Did he approach you again?”

There was a pause, then Rina whispered, “Yes…” Taking a deep breath, she said, “That officer, what’s his name? Frank? He said he’d keep my name out of this. But word got out anyway, and Worm Tongue came looking for me.”

Across from Charon, Fakir winced. Alex gave a supportive pat on Fakir’s shoulder as Charon reprised his earlier question. “Could you tell me what happened?”

Rina collected herself, and in a steadier voice, recounted, “I think it was about seven… no, six days ago… that afternoon, after I finished my shift at the dance hall, I went across the street to the soda shop to buy a pack of cigarettes. As I was paying, the owner mentioned that someone had asked about me the day before. I asked her who it was, and she didn’t know his name, but the description she gave me… it could only be him.”

“By ‘him’, you mean the man known as Worm Tongue?” Charon clarified.

Across the line, Rina nodded. “She said he asked her if she knew where I lived, that he had urgent business he needed to talk to me about. Now, I go to that soda shop a fair amount. It’s convenient, and the prices are fair, but the owner is terribly gullible and loose-tongued! We’ve chatted a bit about myself and my situation before, but she…! She was almost the death of me! She believed him, and told him I lived on Davidson Street. The one saving grace was that she couldn’t remember the house number exactly.

“I didn’t know what to do at first. My first impulse was to leave New York City and come straight home, to Buffalo. But save for the half dollar in my pocket and the clothes I had on my back that day, everything else was in my apartment. I milled around until evening and I realized I had no choice but to risk going back to the apartment.

“I walked back through a shortcut that most people who aren’t familiar with the area don’t know about, and saw a car parked in front of the building. I could tell right away it wasn’t one of the neighborhood boys’ cars, and there was someone sitting inside in the driver’s seat. I hid in the alley across the street from the car. The light was bad, but I knew it was Worm Tongue. No one else I’ve ever met is so tall that their head practically touches the roof of the car.”

Charon made a writing motion to Fakir and Alex, who were listening so keenly to Rina’s story they had forgotten about the important task of recording her statement. As the young men scrambled to fetch a pen and paper, Charon continued with his questions. “Could you see what type of car it was?”

There was a pause on the phone. Finally, Rina answered, “It was hard to see, but it looked like a Model T. It was a dark-colored car. Black, I think. And I remember the front fender on the driver’s side was badly dented.”

“Could you see the license plate number?”

“No. It was too dark for me to read. It looked like a New York plate, but I could only see that it was a lighter colored plate with dark letters. I tried getting closer to have a better look, but I can only tell there was a set of small letters and numbers on the left side of the plate.”

As Alex jotted this down, Fakir whispered excitedly, “That sounds like it could be a 1915 plate.* There aren’t that many plates with a light background and lettering on the left side!”

His partner nodded, a grin on his face. But unlike his juniors, Charon showed no outward signs of excitement. Maintaining a calm, even voice, he remained focused on moving the conversation forward. “And were you able to get inside your apartment in the end?”

“Yes. I waited in the alley, hoping he would give up and leave at some point. He finally did, probably a quarter after 1 in the morning. After waiting for a bit, to make sure he wasn’t going to circle back right away, I rushed in, grabbed what I could, and went straight to Penn Station. I almost didn’t remember to telegram the dance hall or Bloomingdales to tell them I quit until an hour before I was about to get on the train.”

“I see. Thank you, Miss Rogowski. I’m sorry again for the fright this whole thing must’ve caused you. Rest assured, we will do all we can to apprehend Worm Tongue. For your sake, and the sake of others,” Charon glanced at Fakir. “We will be sure to keep you informed of our progress. Here’s my phone number if you or your family has any questions…”

As Charon wrapped up the interview, Fakir broke away and threw on his jacket as Alex did likewise. “We’re going to Motor Theft,” he said to Charon just as the older officer hung up the receiver. “Anthony Vermi doesn’t have a vehicle registered to his name. More than likely, the car he was in belongs to someone else. With his history, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d stolen it. Who owns that car and where it was from might give us a clue as to where he’s hiding out.”

* * *

Fakir and Alex spent the rest of the night at the Motor Theft department, sorting through several large stacks of stolen vehicle reports from the past year. Out of those, they noted Model T’s with 1915 registration plates. By the end of the night, they had compiled a list of almost a hundred cars, a small handful of which were noted to have damaged fenders on the driver side similar that Rina described.

When Fakir and Alex finally returned to the homicide office, the clock on the wall had just struck nine. Tousling his shaggy brown hair, Alex stretched his sore back and sighed. “I guess the next step is to call the folks with the dented fender and see what they have to say…”

“Yeah…” an equally exhausted Fakir exhaled as he slumped into his chair.

At the sound of their voices, the door to Charon’s office opened, and the gray-haired captain reappeared from behind the frosted glass of the office door. “How did it go?”

Fakir gave Charon a brief recap of their findings. Seeing the tired but determined expressions on the two young men in front of him, Charon smiled, “The two of you have done more leg work today than I usually do in a whole month. You both should take a break and get some rest. You’ve been on the job for 14 hours straight already.”

Fakir rose from his chair. Slinging his coat over his shoulder, he said, “I’m going to take a nap in interview room A for a bit.”

“Good idea. I’m going to get some shuteye in the car, then,” Alex picked up the car key that was laying on his desk. “My wife says I snore really loud, so it’s probably best that I don’t sleep in the office.”

Hearing this, Charon gave a hearty laugh and even Fakir couldn’t help but let out a bemused huff.

“Bring an extra coat if you plan to sleep in the car, Alex,” Charon advised. “As much as I appreciate your concern for our ears, I don’t want you catching a cold out there. Check with Batson. I recall he usually keeps an extra coat by his desk for late night case calls.”

Heeding Charon’s advice, Alex hurried over towards the Robbery division to borrow the coat from his colleague. When Alex was out of earshot, Fakir paused a short distance from Charon and asked quietly, “Say, Charon… have you heard any word on how Duck is doing?”

Charon sobered at the question. Meeting Fakir’s somber expression, the captain exhaled softly. “The boys from the last watch didn’t have anything to report. I don’t believe she’s left her apartment all day today.”

Fakir gave a small, solemn nod and continued towards the interview room. Watching him walk away, Charon was about to say something when the telephone in his office began to ring. As Charon departed to answer the phone, Alex ran back and Fakir looked over his shoulder at his partner, who was now holding a large bundle of woolen coats in his arms.

“I’ll come wake you up in two hours, Alex,” Fakir said, “Where did you leave the car again?”

“It’s on the east side of the building, right in front of—” Alex began, but before he could finish his sentence, a sharp exclamation from Charon’s office made them turn around sharply.

Alarmed, they rushed towards the captain’s office as they heard Charon’s voice demand, “Did you say you found him? I couldn’t hear you; the connection isn’t very good!”

At this, Fakir’s drowsiness suddenly vanished and his heart began to race. When he and Alex finally made it to the door, the detectives found Charon standing with the phone in his hand and a choppy voice on the line saying, “—yes, we found ‘im. He—outside Linden, by the New Jersey border.”

“Were you able to apprehend him?” Charon asked and three men waited with bated breath for the response. But the answer was not what any of them expected to hear.

“Eh, unfortunately, no—we tried to—but Vermi is dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *While preset emergency numbers such as 9-1-1 (within the US) are common in many countries today, they did not exist back in 1925. The first preset national emergency number came into service in the late 1930’s, in the United Kingdom. In the US, a national emergency number first came into use in 1968 after over a decade of planning and development.
> 
> *Alex’s last name is taken from the character George Stone, an upstanding rookie Italian-American police officer in the classic film, The Untouchables. 
> 
> *Childs Restaurants was one of the first national dining chains in the United States. Founded by brothers Samuel and William Childs, the first Childs Restaurant opened in Manhattan, New York in 1889. The restaurant aimed to provide economic meals to the working class but with clean and hygienic conditions. To paraphrase Wikipedia, the restaurant was also noted to have invented the “tray-line” self-serve cafeteria system, common now in schools and canteens all over the world.
> 
> *I found an interesting Wikipedia page detailing the designs of car license plates in New York state from 1910 all the way to the present. Each iteration has a distinctive design, but of those relevant to the story’s chronology I personally found the 1915 plates to be most distinctive if one were looking at it from, say, a dimly lit alley. If you’re curious to see what a historic New York license plate looks like, look up the Wikipedia page called “Vehicle registration plates of New York”, or you can do a quick search on Google Images for “1915 New York license plate”.
> 
> Thanks once again to my friend Tomoyo Ichijouji for proof reading!


End file.
